


somewhere along the way we must grow up, not perfect, but up and out

by echoes_of_realities



Series: time passes, in love and in seasons [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Autumn, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, and a little bit of angst since it deals with Santana's outing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: Autumn comes and goes in the quiet moments. It comes and goes in the quiet moments of time passing between classes and in secluded hallways, where bravery grows as they fight to protect their love from the clumsy fingers of careless teenagers and smear campaigns and familial rejection. It comes and goes like a golden leaf free falling through the air with its unconscious courage as it leaves everything it knows and throws itself into the unknown for just the chance at love and happiness.It’s at the start of autumn that Brittany finally lets go of her fear.It’s at the end of autumn that Santana finally lets go of her fear.[The sequel toyou were the choice I made before I knew what the other choices were]





	somewhere along the way we must grow up, not perfect, but up and out

**Author's Note:**

> It’s even longer than the last one whoops. I blame rewatching Mash Off before I did the November part because that section alone is almost 6,500 words, so, you know, whoops again. 
> 
> Anyway, this will eventually be a four part series following each season of the year (though I’m coming up on major assignments and exams in university so it might take a while). This series will mostly follow canon except for possibly some things in the later half of season 3, especially, like, everything from 3x22 (i.e., Brittany graduates with everyone, Santana’s coming out to her parents story is slightly changed, etc.) because, uh, well because I can since this is fanfic.
> 
> Title and excerpts from “More Often than Sometimes” by Shane Koyczan.

 

_“We lived like two games of solitaire waiting to be played by one another._

_Her mother once asked me, ‘Do you love her?’_

_And I said if there were one million teachers breathing down my neck_

_Telling me the answer is ‘no,’_

_I would say ‘yes.’_

_I guess that was enough for her.”_

 

* * *

 

Autumn is the dwindling evening sunlight caught in blonde eyelashes and fading freckles, and it’s the feeling of apple cider slipping down throats and settling with comforting warmth in bellies shaking with laughter. It’s golden leaves sticking in hair as dark as the midnight sky, and it’s air so crisp it steals the breath from lungs already longing for oxygen between stolen kisses. It’s the scent of dying things and ripe earth and new beginnings hanging heavy in the air, and it’s lingering hands and fingers and kisses as bravery grows and swells until it’s almost overwhelming with a need to confess, and then it’s the violent fracture of that courage by an outside force, like a frost covered branch breaking under the oppressive cold with an echoing _snap_. It’s fear so thick that it’s choking, caught against a throat that struggles to breathe again as everything crumbles into dust until it’s just them, standing among trees bare of their colours, painted new in the softness of the first snow.

Autumn is the time when they hold their breath, and when they work to pick up all the discarded pieces of each other that their classmates carelessly rip off with all the oblivious self-absorption of teenagers. Autumn is the time where they nurture the other’s courage. Autumn is the time when they fall more in love with each other everyday with the very same bravery of each leaf falling from a tree in search of a new beginning.

It’s at the start of autumn that Brittany finally lets go of her fear.

 

* * *

 

“You’re taking your sister shopping for school supplies and that’s final.”

Brittany wants continue to whine her complaints, but with the look in her mom’s eyes just _daring_ her to object, and the fact that Brittany rather values her life, she decides to just grumble her ascent and grab her keys, spinning on her heel and calling for her sister to hurry her butt up.

“My butt’s on its way!” her sister calls back down the stairs, which Brittany knows means she’s got at least fifteen more minutes to kill before they’ll be out the door. Brittany rolls her eyes and plops down on the living room couch, stretching her legs out and mindlessly pulling her phone out to text Santana that she’s going to be late.

Her phone dings almost instantly, and the goofy grin that spreads across her face when Santana’s name precedes her text message is something that can’t be helped. She’s tried to suppress it, for years really, but, especially since the start of the summer, it’s been more or less physically impossibly for her to _not_ smile every time Santana texts her or calls her or drops by unexpectedly or does anything, really, like breathes; or anytime Brittany, like, you know, thinks of Santana.

_The munchkin?_ Santana’s text reads.

_Who else?_ Brittany responds.

Brittany only has enough time to open her sudoku puzzle app before a new message dings at the top of her screen. _Lol that’s true. Text me when you guys are on your way_. And then another message dings, _Hurry though. My mom’s driving me up the wall with her worrying about what I need for senior year._

Brittany grins and quickly types her response, _The mini-me still isn’t dressed._

_Well fuck._ Brittany giggles and stays on her message app instead of switching back to her sudoku, waiting for the next text she knows will be coming. _I’ll probably have lost my mind by the time you get here._

_So dramatic_ , Brittany types, and then, _Though I’ll still love you even if you lose your mind. Like when you’re old and senile and only have one tooth and can only hobble around._

There’s a small lull and Brittany switches over to her sudoku while she waits for Santana’s next text. She doesn’t disappoint, responding with, _Come on Britt-Britt, we’d be the hottest grandma’s in the old folks home._ Brittany’s smile grows until her face can barely contain her happiness, squishing her cheeks until they start to ache with the weight of the joy bubbling and blooming under her sternum, her phone forgotten on her stomach as she buries her face in her hands. Her phone dings again and she manages to compose herself enough to pick up her phone again. _I’ll still love you when you’re old and senile too._

Brittany’s cheeks are really starting to complain about the force of her smile, but she can’t quite care because she just so happens to be hopelessly in love with the best, sweetest, dearest, most adorable person in the history of entire world. Brittany quickly types out _Xoxo_ and sends it, instantly receiving the same in response, and her smile stays glued to her face as she finishes a couple sudoku’s, and it stays there even when her dad wanders into the living room and teases her about it, and it stays there even when her sister takes a running jump at the couch and knocks all the breath out of her.

“Britty!” her sister screams somewhere near her ear.

Brittany rolls her eyes fondly, smile still frozen as she sucks in deep breaths. “Yo, lil’ sis, you’re breaking me.”

“Sorry, Britty,” Brittany hears mumbled into her ear, more subdued as her sister shifts around and curls her sprawled form around Brittany in a apologetic hug, no longer crushing her lungs. “Who’re you texting?” she asks.

“No one, half-pint,” Brittany says, ruffling her sister’s head and earning a giggling swat. “I was doing sudoku.”

“No,” her sister whines, “I mean earlier. When you were giggling.”

“Sudoku is very funny,” Brittany deadpans.

“Britty,” another annoyed whine, a pause, and then, “Was it ‘Tana?”

Brittany laughs because, for being nine years old, her sister is smarter than most of the high schoolers she knows. “Yeah, it’s ‘Tana. How’d you know?”

“‘Cause I could hear you smiling from the hallway.”

Brittany laughs again because, well, she’s probably not wrong. “Come on, we still gotta pick Tana up and we’re already late.”

Her sister jumps off Brittany and the couch immediately. “San’s coming!” she shouts. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have been ready ages ago!”

Brittany rolls her eyes and allows herself to be pulled to her feet and towards the door, her sister jumping around and excitedly chattering the whole way. Brittany helps her sister tie her shoes and boops her on the nose before chasing her out to her car. She clambers into the backseat, behind the passenger seat, and Brittany has to interrupt her rambling twice before she finally buckles her seatbelt around herself. Brittany rolls her eyes fondly and backs out of the driveway, occasionally answering her sister’s questions whenever she pauses for enough of a breath to allow Brittany to actually speak.

They’re about half way to Santana’s when her sister settles and quiets for a couple blocks, studying the back of Brittany’s ear with an intensity that’s usually reserved for playing on her DS. “Do you have a crush on Santana?” her sister finally asks, her voice high and quiet with reserved innocence.

Brittany glances at her sister in the rearview mirror where she’s kicking her legs against the passenger seat in front of her and staring thoughtfully at her older sister. Brittany thinks of Santana and wonders if she’d freak out. She’s been better about the idea of other people knowing about them with each passing day, but it’s one of those things that’s quiet and careful with a couple steps forward and a couple steps back. Like how Santana held her hand in the empty aisle at the grocery store last week when they were picking up movie snacks, but dropped it like it burned her and darted about six feet away when an old man shuffled past the end of the aisle. Like how Brittany could tell Santana’s heart pounded loud and fast just by the wide, dark eyes that caught on her own, and how Santana closed her eyes with a murmured _Sorry_ and bought Brittany an extra box of Dots as an apology. Like how Brittany assured her it was okay because it’s a lot like dancing, going a couple steps forward and a couple steps back, and because, in the end, it means you’re still moving towards something. Like how Santana looked a little breathless and a little teary and a little like she really wanted to kiss Brittany from that moment and for forever, and like how, later on Santana’s bed, Santana did kiss her for really long time, tasting of fear and hope and candy.

Santana’s been getting better, but it’s still a slow and steady process, like hiking up a mountain. Or at least, Brittany thinks hiking a mountain is slow and steady, she’s never actually done that before, and for all she knows you’re supposed to sprint up a mountain, but that seems ridiculous and hard, so Brittany figures slow and steady makes more sense.

“Britty?”

Brittany blinks and catches curious eyes in the rearview mirror. She thinks of Santana’s panic over small things like people looking at them when they stand too close, and tries to answer her sister honestly while keeping Santana protected from her own fear. “Why do you think I have a crush on her?”

Her sister shrugs and goes back to kicking her legs against the seat. “I dunno. You smile a lot when she’s around, and even when she’s not around and you’re just texting her. And you sing a lot of love songs in the shower. And you always buy her candy when you take me to the store. And you say her name differently than mommy and daddy do.”

“What do you mean different?” Brittany asks, curious about it because her sister is pretty smart.

Her sister shrugs again. “I dunno,” she repeats, “Just different. It’s like you’re trying to keep her name safe from all the bad things.”

“Huh,” Brittany manages to say, her heart pounding in a hundred different ways.

“So I was wondering if you had a crush on her,” her sister continues, “‘cause you’re always smiling and mushy around her.”

Brittany swallows and glances at her sister in the review mirror again as she waits at a stoplight, weighing her options, before settling on a partial truth. “I do have a crush on her, but you can’t tell anyone. Especially her, okay?”

Her sister turns dark eyes on her thoughtfully. “I thought you are always supposed to tell people when you love them in case they forget. That’s what daddy always says.”

Brittany nods as she pulls into Santana’s driveway. Santana’s mom’s car is gone, so Brittany assumes she must have left for work already. “That’s true, lil’ sis,” Brittany finally agrees, “but sometimes you have to be careful not to scare the people you love by moving too fast.”

“Oh.”

Brittany can tell that her sister doesn’t really get it, so she tries for another approach that used to be true but definitely isn’t anymore. “Think of it this way, I don’t know if Santana has a crush on me too, so I’m waiting until I know for sure.”

Her sister’s face clears and she nods in acceptance. “It’s okay, Britty, I think I get it,” she assures, her features painted in earnestness, “But I think ‘Tana has a crush on you too ‘cause she’s smiley and mushy like you are whenever she’s over at our house.”

Brittany bites down on her lip to keep the wide smile threatening her contained. “Thanks, lil’ sis,” Brittany finally manages, “I think she might too.” 

Her sister starts kicking at the passenger seat again and hums along to the radio so Brittany takes that as her cue to grab her phone and text Santana that they’re here. Brittany doesn’t get a response for one and a half songs, long enough for Santana to have got a reminder notification if she didn’t hear it the first time. Long enough for Brittany to feel a seed of worry take root in her stomach and her to send another text to Santana.

It’s only seconds later when she gets a reply, and all it reads is _Britt_ and the seed of worry starts to bloom.

“Come one, lil’ sis,” Brittany says, rolling up the front windows before shutting the car off and pulling the keys out, frowning at the phone in her hands, “You can watch cartoons for a bit, I’ve gotta talk to Tana alone.”

Her sister sighs and whines and grumbles but shuts up quick when Brittany promises to take her out for ice cream after they pick up their school supplies. Brittany gets out of the car and waits for her sister to stumble out too before she locks it and jogs up to Santana’s front door. It’s open, so she doesn’t even have to use the spare key on her keychain, and she knocks as she opens the door. “Santana,” she calls cautiously, “it’s me. Are you in here?”

“In the kitchen,” is the muffled reply she gets. 

“I’ll be right there,” Brittany calls, something like worry churning her stomach. The kitchen is at the back of the house, so Brittany sits her sister down on the couch in the living room right off the front entrance, turning on the television and switching to cartoons that her sister happily watches, snuggled into the arm of the couch and tugging the throw blanket over her shoulders. Brittany turns and heads down the hallway with the bathroom and closet and stairs to the basement until she reaches the dining room off the kitchen, her heart thudding and all her nerves tingling with growing concern as she follows the quiet sniffling.

Santana is standing at the sink, staring vacantly out the window into the backyard. She looks smaller than usual, her toes pressed towards each other and her shoulders rounded forwards, water and soap suds dripping to her elbows as she mechanically scrubs at a plate that looks like it’s been clean for a while.

“Santana?” Brittany murmurs. Santana doesn’t respond to her, so Brittany tiptoes forwards, grabbing the dish towel off the stove handle and stepping up to Santana’s body. Santana jerks and jumps in surprise when she feels the length of Brittany’s body press against hers, tense for a moment before she melts into Brittany’s body. “Santana?” Brittany tries again, and this time Santana nods in acknowledgement, half turning her head towards Brittany, dark eyes wide and fearful, tears gathered among her lower eyelashes. Something deep below Brittany’s sternum aches as she reaches around Santana and feels how cold the smaller girl is. Brittany tightens her arms around Santana’s body until their biceps are flush, taking the plate from Santana’s trembling fingers and placing the dish back into the sink, gently drying Santana’s hands and arms with the dish towel. She tosses the towel onto the counter and wraps her self more fully around Santana, strapping her arms against Santana’s stomach and resting her chin on a rounded shoulder, pressing butterfly kisses to Santana’s neck and the bottom of her jaw, trying to envelope Santana in her warmth.

Santana makes a small noise in the back of her throat and melts back into Brittany, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply through her nose. Brittany continues to pepper kisses against Santana’s chilled skin, dancing her fingers along Santana’s stomach and sides and hoping to take everything that’s hurting Santana away with just her touch. She knows she can’t because she’s tried for almost twelve years and it’s never really worked before, Santana’s demons always seem to stubbornly cling and drip from her shoulders; but Brittany also knows that her hugs make them stop bothering Santana for a while, and so she hugs Santana as tight as she can and keeps pressing kisses to every inch of skin she can reach.

“Santana?” Brittany asks again.

“Thank you, Britt-Britt,” Santana mumbles. Brittany’s not sure what she’s thanking her for, but she nods against Santana’s neck and shoulder and squeezes Santana’s sides. Santana takes a deep breath. “I just— My mom was all over me for what I need for school supplies and I just— I think today’s the first day I’ve really thought about how we’re going back to school and how—How the summer’s ending.”

Brittany knows there’s something more to this than Santana being sad about the end of warm weather and late nights and homework free days. Brittany presses her lips to Santana’s skin again and thinks of everything they’ve done over the summer, and everything that happened the last year, and then it’s all so clear to Brittany. “You’re worried that things won’t be like this anymore, that we won’t be the same,” she realizes, “That we’ll lose the summer feeling.”

Santana swallows and closes her eyes before she gives a tiny nod. “I just— We’re going back to school and I have no clue what we’re going to do or how we should act because I’m still so fucking scared and I’m not ready for everybody to know yet and even if we’re back on the Cheerios it won’t protect us from all the things people will say or do and I—” Santana bites off the rest of her sentence, breathing heavily, hands closing over the pale arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. “I’m not ashamed of loving you, but I just— I can’t deal with everyone yet. I can’t deal with everyone knowing and judging and thinking that they know us when I know they wouldn’t understand, or even try to and I just— I _can’t_. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Santana,” Brittany murmurs against her neck, and it’s that one word that causes Santana to snap. She spins around and buries her teary face into Brittany’s neck. Brittany smooths her hands up and over Santana’s back, murmuring soothing nonsense into the dark hair pressed against her face, lips brushing the shell of Santana’s ear. She keeps up her stream of reassuring words, barely even knowing what she’s saying, only that her own heart aches in the face of Santana’s anguish and uncertainty; all she really knows is that she’d do just about anything to bring Santana’s smile back. After long moments of listening to Santana sob against her neck, and Brittany desperately trying to calm the storm rushing through Santana’s chest and tearing the girl she loves to shreds, Santana pulls back, hiccuping and sniffling. Her nose is red and running, her mascara has collected under her eyes in trails watery ink down her cheeks, and her eyes are bloodshot, but she gives Brittany a tiny, teary smile and Brittany’s sure she’s never looked more beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Santana rasps, voice hoarse from her sobs.

Brittany’s breath catches and she tightens her arms around Santana again, pulling her back to her chest and twisting her neck so she can pepper kisses over Santana’s skin again. “Tana, you don’t have to be sorry for being a human.”

“I know,” Santana mumbles somewhere between Brittany’s shoulder and chest, “I just— I dunno.”

Brittany hums against Santana, running her hands up and down and around Santana’s back. “I know, sweetie, I know.”

Santana sighs and Brittany can feel the shape of her smile press against her collarbone in a kiss. “Thanks, Britt. I love you.”

“I love you too, Santana,” Brittany responds instantly. The words that used to scare her so because she worried it would send Santana running are now the easiest in the world; her sister was right earlier, you should tell people when you love them as often as you can because sometimes they need to be reminded of how easy they are to love. Santana pulls back and laughs a little at herself, wiping at her cheeks with embarrassed fingers until Brittany _tuts_ and bats her hands away, carefully catching mascara on her thumbs and cleaning away all evidence of Santana’s tears until all that’s left is a sheepish smile and bright, dark eyes. 

“Hi,” Santana whispers.

Brittany giggles and trails her hands from Santana’s cheeks, along her neck and across her shoulders and down her arms until she can tangle their hands together between their bodies. “Hi,” she whispers back.

Santana’s smile shrinks just a tiny bit but she seems a little softer now, like the storm inside her calmed back down again. “What do we do at school, Brittany?”

Brittany runs her thumb over the back of Santana’s hand, tracing the play of muscle over bones, kneading the clever strength residing in the hands of the girl Brittany loves so much. “We’ll just be us.”

Santana looks up at Brittany, helpless and pleading, and Brittany can see the fear still swimming in dark, midnight eyes. “Britt,” she rasps.

Brittany curls towards Santana until their foreheads are pressed together, fingers still tangled together between their bodies and toes nudging against each other. “We’ll just be us,” Brittany repeats, patient and sure, “We’ll just be us like how we’ve been all summer. Quiet and in love.”

Santana searches bright blue eyes for a long moment, and Brittany watches as the flighty thing swimming in Santana’s eyes eases and disappears until all that’s left is hope and love. Santana smiles, her mouth quirking up to the side until Brittany’s favourite dimple appears and creases Santana’s cheeks. “You so smart, Britt-Britt,” Santana breathes, and Brittany feels that too-warm-for-her-own-skin feeling bloom across her cheeks and down her neck, the same feeling that spreads every time Santana says that in her most confidant and awed voice. She glances away, feeling too full with Santana looking at her like that. “No, really, Britt-Britt,” Santana insists, tugging on their tangled hands until Brittany meets her eyes again. “You’re the wisest person I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” Brittany can’t help it when her voice turns up and questioning and unsure.

“Really really,” Santana promises. “You always know just the right thing to say to me no matter what I’m feeling, and you always know exactly how to make me laugh and feel loved. No one else can do that, Britt. You’re a genius.”

Brittany smiles and nudges her nose against Santana’s, brushing their lips together and savouring the warmth pooling in her stomach. For perhaps the first time, she doesn’t see images of past report cards or disappointed teachers flash before her, and she smiles, nudging her nose against Santana’s. Santana rises up on her toes to brush their lips together, tugging on their hands and pulling Brittany even closer to her. “Thank you,” Brittany mumbles against Santana’s lips.

Santana trails quick kisses across Brittany’s lips and along her chin and jaw before pulling back just enough to look into Brittany’s eyes. “No, thank _you_ , Miss Smarty-pants,” she says, smile wide and eyes sparkling. With a look like that, so honest and sure and full of love, Brittany can’t help but believe what Santana says, and the only thing she can do is press her lips against Santana’s again, untangling their hands so she can wrap her arms around Santana’s neck and shoulders and melt their bodies into one.

Every time she thinks she couldn’t possibly love Santana anymore than she already does, Santana says something like that or smiles at her or tells her _I’ll still love you when you’re old and senile too,_ and Brittany feels her stomach swoop like the moment of suspended time right before a rollercoaster peaks and plummets, like she’s falling a little bit more in love with Santana once again.

Brittany pulls back and kisses the tip of Santana’s nose before winding their hands together again, her left in Santana’s right, and tugging her out of the kitchen. “C’mon, Tana, the munchkin is impatient for your company.”

Santana giggles and allows herself to be pulled towards the living room, where she’s attacked with hugs from both of her favourite Pierces.

 

* * *

 

September is warm and cool, summer in the curling gold of sunbeams and winter in the heavy chill of shade; it’s continuing to love each other in the warm darkness behind bedroom doors and beginning to love each other in the florescent light of high school classrooms, it’s shade where midnight hair bobs up on tiptoes to kiss summer back into freckled cheeks and pink lips, and it’s in the sun where hands brush and pinkies link and elbows lock against the changing gold of autumn and the dusty textbooks of classrooms.

 

* * *

 

The summer sun fades but the summer feeling stays, just as Brittany promised it would. Santana doesn’t even pretend to look at boys because she’s too busy smiling her Brittany-smile at Brittany every time she sees her in the hallway, the one that crinkles her eyes and scrunches her nose and dimples her cheeks and makes a million butterflies take flight inside Brittany’s stomach. Brittany can tell Santana’s growing braver everyday because, even on the first day of school, she links their elbows together in the cafeteria, and she dances with her in glee and on tables and at Cheerios practice, and when she gets to the cafeteria first she buys lunch for Brittany and always remembers to put extra cherry tomatoes on her salad. Brittany _knows_ Santana is making progress, slow and steady, but still forward and determined. She knows Santana is making progress which is why Brittany hates it whenever someone unintentionally, or sometimes intentionally, stomps all over that progress.

It’s why Brittany hates it when Santana’s kicked out of glee club, she _hates_ it not just because they can’t sit in the back and cuddle like they always do, but because Mr. Schue can’t see that Coach made Santana do it, even when Santana says “Sue made me.” She hates it because Brittany is lonely in glee club even surrounded by everyone and she hates it because no one listens to Santana even though she’s almost always completely honest and she hates it because Santana seems to retreat back into that head cheerleader she was last year who got mean when she got scared and she hates it because Santana’s trying so hard to be brave for her but everyone keeps knocking her back down just as she’s getting up and she hates it because Mr. Schue and Rachel and Finn and everyone don’t understand how much Santana _needs_ their acceptance and she _hates it, she hates it, she hates it._

But despite all of the fear and the rejection, Santana still smiles her Brittany-smile every time she sees, and she still links their elbows and pinkies together, and she still makes sure to get extra cherry tomatoes when she buys Brittany’s lunch, and she offers to help make Kurt’s campaign posters, and she doesn’t even flinch when they spend their free period putting up bright pink, rainbow covered posters in the hallways where everyone can see. And Brittany is so, so, so proud of Santana that she tries to show her at every possible second, in notes passed and secret kisses and linked pinkies and after school cuddles and goodnight texts.

Brittany knows that Santana’s making progress, but she also knows that everything with Santana is a couple steps forward and a couple steps back, like doing a waltz, which is actually something she really likes doing with Santana too, especially in one of their kitchens, late at night and in socked feet, dancing to the sounds of their giggling instead of actual music. And since Brittany knows that Santana’s making progress, it’s so easy to be patient and understanding because it just feels like they’re still moving towards something better, and it’s why she doesn’t panic anymore whenever Santana panics, because instead of turning away from Brittany she turns towards her.

And it’s why, when Santana calls her at quarter to eleven on a Tuesday night, her quiet and subdued voice quickly turning teary and gasping, Brittany doesn’t hesitate to throw on some sweatpants and a hoodie and grab her car keys off her dresser and tiptoe through her house towards the front door; it’s why she knows that Santana needs her and won’t push her away anymore.

“Where do you think you’re going, missy?”

Brittany freezes, her phone still in hand, Santana breathing harshly in her ear, and turns away from the front door. Her mom stands at the entry to the kitchen, hands on hips and patented mom-glare in place. “Santana, honey,” Brittany murmurs into her phone, “I need to talk to my mom quickly but stay on the phone, okay?”

She waits until Santana mumbles her ascent to pull her phone from her ear and press the speaker to her shoulder. Her mom waits expectantly and Brittany puts on her best pleading look to explain herself, “I was going to go to Santana’s.”

“At ten forty on a school night?” her mom asks skeptically, “I don’t think so.”

“Mom,” Brittany begs, taking a step towards her, “she’s in one of her panics.” Her mom’s face softens, just a little bit, and Brittany takes another step forward, hoping that her mom will understand how much Santana needs her right now. “Her mom’s out of town this week so she’s all alone and I just— She sounded really scared and I can’t— I can’t just leave her there alone when I know I can help her.”

Her mom sighs and stares at Brittany for a long moment, searching Brittany’s face, before nodding her consent. “Drive careful, sweetie. And give her a hug from me too.” Brittany nods frantically and leaps at her mom, pulling her into a tight hug and mumbling her thanks, before turning and shoving her feet into her sneakers and rushing out the door. “Be home before midnight,” her mom calls from the doorway. Brittany raises a hand in a wave to indicate she heard before getting into her car. 

She lifts the phone back to her ear. Santana is still breathing harshly and Brittany swears she hears a little sniffle because her heart practically cracks in two at the tiny noise. “Santana? I’m on my way, okay? I’ll be there in five minutes but I can’t talk and drive.” Santana makes a small noise, though whether it’s in acknowledgement or protest Brittany is not quite sure. “I’m going to put my phone on speaker and put it in the cupholder, okay?” she continues. “That way you’ll still be able to hear me.” Santana makes another noncommittal sound.

Brittany narrates her trip to Santana’s house, hoping Santana is listening. The streetlights paint her dashboard in flashes of gold, and she tells Santana about the sketchy guys in hoodies a couple blocks from Santana’s house, and about the clouds that drift in front of the silvery moon and cast the neighbourhood in darker shadows, and the dog barking at her car that she thinks might be a golden retriever or a yellow lab or maybe a chihuahua because she’s not really good at recognizing dog barks.

By the time she pulls into Santana’s driveway and shuts her car off, putting her phone back against her ear, Santana seems to have calmed a little. Her breathing isn’t too loud and too harsh anymore, and the sniffles have stopped, and she finally speaks when Brittany tells her she’s here.

“You should re-lock the door after you come in,” Santana says, her voice lower and raspier than usual. “There’s been a bunch of break-ins a couple streets over.”

“I don’t know how to lock doors,” Brittany deadpans, delighting in the small giggle she receives. 

“Brittany,” Santana whines, but there’s a smile in her voice and Brittany grins as she flips through her keys for Santana’s house key, the one with a heart painted in red nail polish so she doesn’t forget where her heart’s home is. 

Brittany keeps her voice monotone as she fiddles with the key in the lock. “Actually, unlocking doors is pretty weird too. Maybe I’ll just wait out here all night and stare at the lock.” She twists her wrist and pushes the door open, stepping into the lonely, cold house. She kicks her shoes off and bumps the door closed with her hip, flipping the deadbolt back shut with a quiet click that sounds too-loud in the silent house. “I’ll just stare at the lock and hope it opens, you know? Just will it to unlock itself.”

“Britt-Britt,” Santana whines again, but this time Santana’s voice is more giggle than not, and Brittany smiles as she heads down the stairs to the basement.

“I think I need to stare at the lock in silence though, so goodnight,” she says, not waiting for Santana’s answer before she hangs up. 

Santana’s bedroom door swings open before Brittany reaches it. She’s in sleep shorts and Brittany’s old cheer shirt, her favourite pair of pjs when Brittany herself is not there to cuddle with. “Hi,” she breathes, throwing herself into Brittany’s arms.

“Hi,” Brittany answers into Santana’s hair. Santana’s not crying, but she’s clutching Brittany as if she’d like to. Brittany runs her hands down Santana’s back, pulling her into her warmth. Santana breathes deeply against her, arms wrapped tightly around Brittany’s neck, opening their bodies up to the other so there is no space between them. Brittany hums and rocks them back and forth, not loosening her hold until Santana starts to pull away because her dad always taught her to never release a hug first because you don’t know how much the other person needs it. It’s why, when they were younger and things were a little simpler than the last couple years have been, Brittany held Santana until she fell asleep, because Santana always seemed to need be held for longer than anyone else Brittany knew, and because Brittany sometimes needed to be held that long too.

So that’s what Brittany does now, just holds Santana until she doesn’t need to be held anymore, arms pinned around the small of Santana’s back, her chin settled on the stretch of skin between Santana’s neck and shoulder, humming something they were singing during glee the other day, something soft and warm. 

Santana takes a shuddering breath and draws back from Brittany, giving her a tiny smile as she takes Brittany’s hands and tugs her into the bedroom. The bedside lamp is on, bathing the room in warm light and casting deep shadows in the crevasses and corners of the room, painting clothes in mysterious darkness and drawing long swathes of shadow across makeup and hairspray bottles on the dresser. The closet is a gapping hole that used to scare both of them, back when a young Santana would play at being brave to check for monsters, Brittany clutching at the back of Santana’s pjs with one hand and her stuffed unicorn with the other. Back when a young Brittany would squeal and bury her face in Santana’s neck whenever she caught a looming shadow out of the corner of her eye, Santana’s voice shaking as she tried to comfort Brittany until she caught a glimpse the same looming shadow and spin around to bury her head in Brittany’s neck too, both girls clutching at each other and trying to soothe each other through their fear.

Santana catches Brittany staring into the closet and smirks at her. “Need me to check for monsters, Britt-Britt?”

Brittany grins and playfully kicks at Santana’s ass when she turns to bend over and plug her phone in, her grin widening at the half-offended-half-sultry look Santana shoots over her shoulder. “Nah, Tana, it’s okay. I don’t want you to get all scared too.”

Santana sticks her tongue out at her, placing her phone facedown on her bedside table and crawling into her bed, shyly gesturing at the headboard in question. Brittany grins and kicks her sneakers off, taking a running leap and flopping on Santana’s bed, sending Santana bouncing and giggling. “Britt,” she laughs, “What the hell are you doing down there?”

“Escaping the monsters,” Brittany mumbles into Santana’s duvet. She props herself up on her elbows, her head hovering by Santana’s hip and her blonde hair in wild disarray. 

Santana laughs and smoothes staticky hair away from Brittany’s face. “Come here,” she murmurs, tugging at Brittany’s shoulders. Brittany grins and lets herself be pulled up to lean against the headboard, crosslegged in front of Santana, their knees brushing against each other, hands tangled between their laps and smiling widely at each other.

“Hey, Santana?” Brittany asks. She hates to break the carefree, happy feeling surrounding them, but she has to know, and they’ve both been really working on talking to each other about things like this. “Why’d you call earlier?”

Santana tenses for a brief moment before her shoulders drop and she ducks her head, avoiding Brittany’s gaze. “Oh. I just— I mean you— You love me, right?” Santana’s voice turns small and inward as she asks her question, and Brittany’s heart aches just a little bit as she tangles their fingers more tightly together.

“Oh Santana,” Brittany says, tugging on Santana’s hands until she can press their foreheads together as she pulls Santana forward to tumble onto Brittany’s lap, so they’re breathing each other’s air and pressed so closely together that Brittany doesn’t really think they’ll ever become fully unstuck. Brittany untangles their hands so she can reach up and cup Santana’s face, palms pressed to warm, smooth skin and thumbs stroking across cheekbones; Santana’s hands smooth over Brittany’s sides before curling into the loose fabric of her hoodie. “Of course I love you. I love you more than anything else in the history of ever, and I love you even more every single day.”

“Okay,” Santana breathes, her eyes darting between Brittany’s, “Okay. I know that. I _do_ ,” she vows, “I just— It’s just sometimes I need to hear it.”

“Honey, I’ll tell you as many times as you need me to,” Brittany promises, “and then I’ll tell you a million more after that too just to make sure you know.”

Santana closes her eyes and allows herself a tiny smile. “Thank you,” she says, voice awed.

Brittany scrunches her nose at Santana. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you, silly. It’s, like, the easiest thing in the world.”

Santana’s eyes open and turn shining and deep and liquid, a little bit like melting chocolate looks, dark and warm. Her smile widens, just a little. “You’re amazing, Britt-Britt,” she murmurs.

Brittany’s skin gets too hot around her cheeks just then. “Yeah, well,” she says, and then gives Santana a slow, deep, searching kiss, pressing her promise against Santana’s lips.

Santana hums as Brittany pulls back, and she seems settled for a moment before her eyes shift and turn inwards again. “What are we—” she starts, and then pauses to take a deep breath, “What are we doing? I— I mean— How do we act at school?” 

“I thought we talked about this already,” Brittany ventures cautiously, thinking back to their conversation before school started, and to all the different ways they’ve just been them, just _Brittany-and-Santana_ since school started.

“My mom called tonight,” Santana explains, and Brittany rubs her thumbs over the back of Santana’s hands. Santana swallows and closes her eyes briefly before blinking them back open, and Brittany’s a little shocked by the pained look in them when they meet hers. “She asked if there were any new guys I’m thinking about dating this year.”

Brittany closes her eyes and winces because, yeah, that would explain Santana’s slightly panicked call earlier, and her need to be held and reassured. Brittany releases Santana’s face to wrap her arms around Santana’s neck and shoulders instead, pulling Santana even further into her and pressing her lips to any skin she can reach; temple, cheek, jaw, mouth, neck. “I’m sorry, honey,” she murmurs against the skin.

“S’okay,” Santana mumbles, pleading and helpless, “she doesn’t know any better but it just— It just reminded me of last year, and all the years before that.”

Brittany hums but remains patient and silent, waiting, tracing her lips along Santana’s warm skin.

“I just— I tried so hard to erase that part of me. I tried to be with so many boys to try and erase it, but it always just made me feel so _empty_ afterwards. And no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t erase it, not with any of them. And it—” Santana chokes for a moment, and Brittany can feel Santana’s eyes squish closed against her neck. “I would have done _anything_ to not be gay, but I’m not—” Santana pulls away so she can look at Brittany, her eyes too bright and just a little bit wet, but steady and sure. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t want to erase the part of me that loves you, because if I accomplish nothing else in my life, loving you will always be my best thing.”

“Tana,” Brittany breathes, and she just has to kiss Santana senseless because nothing has ever made her feel more loved than Santana is at this very moment. Santana’s fingers dig into Brittany’s sides, almost desperately, as she kisses Brittany back as if her life depends on it. The kiss is salty between them, tears from eyes like the summer sky and the earth after it rains caught between lips both insistent and promising. 

After what feels like forever, Santana pulls back, peppering kisses across Brittany’s chin and jaw, allowing them a moment to catch their breathes, before she recaptures Brittany’s lips with her own, nipping at the bottom one before darting her tongue out to soothe the sting. Brittany lets her arms fall from Santana’s neck and shoulders until she can cup Santana’s face, running her thumbs across cheekbones and keeping Santana’s face pressed against hers, chins and noses nudging together as their lips move against each other.

Brittany sighs into Santana’s mouth, pulling back so she can study the face she loves more than anything. “I love you,” she breathes.

Santana steals one more kiss before she responds, mumbling against Brittany’s lips, “I love you too.”

Brittany nudges their noses together and kisses Santana again and again and again before her phone dings and she groans, Santana giggling against her lips, drawing back so Brittany can dig her phone out of her pocket, seeing a text from her mom reminding her to be back before midnight. Brittany groans again and lets her head drop against the headboard. “I can’t stay the night,” she mutters.

Santana pouts and Brittany debates texting her mom back and begging for a sleepover until Santana sighs, teasing and soft. “Fine fine, leave me.” Brittany giggles and pokes at Santana as she shifts around until she can settle under her covers, pressing a smile and a kiss to Brittany’s thigh before she settles her head in Brittany’s lap. “Stay until I fall asleep?” she asks, her voice high and unsure because she never lets herself believe she’ll get what she really wants, which is ridiculous because she always wants the things that are easiest for Brittany to give her, like her love.

“Of course, Santana,” Brittany promises. Santana relaxes again while Brittany adjusts the duvet so it’s completely covering Santana’s shoulders. Santana yawns and curls around Brittany’s legs, snuggling her face further into Brittany’s lap and sighing, her breathing deepening out as Brittany carts her fingers through midnight hair, occasionally letting her nails scratch comfortingly against Santana’s scalp. Brittany checks her phone and sees that it’s almost eleven thirty, though she’s sure Santana will drift off to sleep soon enough that she’ll make it home in time, but there’s still something she still has to tell Santana before she leaves.

“Hey, Santana?”

Santana sighs softly against her, her breath ghosting across Brittany’s lap in a soft puff of warm air. “Yeah, Britt-Britt?”

Brittany swallows and pauses in running her fingers through Santana’s hair, her voice dropping to a whisper as she continues, not because it’s a secret or anything, but because it feels so big and important that she needs to be quiet to compensate.

“Loving you will always be my best thing too.”

 

* * *

 

September comes and goes in the quiet moments, with pinkies linked in hallways and hands tangled under desks, with fading freckles and darkening hair, with walks through trees turning golden in the dying light of summer, with numb fingers struggling to open unlocked latches and lithe bodies tumbling through windows because there’s something equally childlike and romantic about midnight window kisses, and because that’s them, that’s their story, from tumbling children to enamoured almost-adults, painted silver in the light of the autumn moon.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, mom,” Brittany wheedles, “It’ll be fun.”

“It’s the last day of September, and also cold,” her mom complains.

“Like really cold,” Santana agrees.

Brittany pouts and slumps against the counter, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “You guys are no fun,” she groans.

Whitney can see Santana starting to cave and rolls her eyes fondly. “Brittany Susan Pierce, do not guilt Santana into having a bonfire in the middle of autumn just because you want some s’mores.”

“But mom,” Brittany whines, “Santana wants s’mores too, right?”

Santana’s eyes dart between Whitney and Brittany, her mouth dropping open a little. “Well, I mean, uh, yeah, I guess so,” she mumbles.

Whitney sighs and rolls her eyes again. “Predictable,” she mutters, hiding her smile in a sip of coffee when Brittany sits up, bouncing on her seat, and beams at Santana, who ducks her head to hide a blush. “Go on you two, hurry up and build the fire before it gets too dark.”

“Thanks mom!” Brittany chirps, jumping out of her chair and launching herself at Santana for a hug before pulling back and dragging a slightly dazed Santana out of the kitchen by the wrist. “C’mon, Santana, we gotta find some tinder in the garage.”

Santana blinks and shakes herself out of her slight stupor, allowing Brittany to tug her through the house. “Slow down, Britt-Britt,” she laughs, “the fire’s not actually going anywhere.”

“No, but the sun is. And I wanna get where we’re going before the sun gets where it’s going,” Brittany explains, pulling Santana into the garage to hunt for the cardboard box of old flyers and newspapers that they keep for starting fires. Once the door to the garage swings shut behind them, Brittany releases Santana’s wrist only after pressing a kiss to Santana’s palm with a dramatic bow, sending Santana into a fit of adoring giggles and playful swats, that breathless look painting her features in a blush again.

Brittany grins as she turns away to look through the shelves on the other side of the family SUV, searching through containers for tinder box. Brittany picks through the plastic containers and cardboard boxes, shifting through old toys and magazines, pushing aside gardening supplies and vinyls. Santana is sorting through containers on the other side of the garage, nudging dusty cardboard and sticky bags of recyclable cans aside with her toe before bending to shuffle through a box filled with old memories, occasionally narrating her findings to Brittany though laughter. As Brittany is shaking her head at Santana’s giggling recount of one of Pierce Pierce’s more elaborate ‘inventions’, Brittany’s fingers brush a smooth box unlike the others she has sorted through so far. The box is thick cardboard, smooth and glossy, covered in a pattern of pink hearts and blue stars over a yellow background. The lid is fit tightly to the box, two pieces of clear tape along the long sides keeping the lid stuck snuggly to the box. On the top of the box is a white sticker, a cartoon cat pawing at the corner, with Brittany’s elementary scrawl across the top messily declaring it to be _Britt-Britt and San’s Adventurs_.

“Hey Santana, come here,” Brittany calls with a smile, tracing her fingers along the slightly battered edges of the box. Santana’s footsteps echo softly around the dim garage as she rises up on her tiptoes to edge around the front of the SUV, brushing her dusty hands against her black jeans and leaving two splotches of brown-grey powder across her thighs.

“What’d you find?” she asks, slinking up behind Brittany, arms wrapping around Brittany’s body and hands sliding into the pocket at the front of her hoodie, front pressed to back and chin resting on Brittany’s shoulder to see what she’s looking at. Brittany feels Santana press a smiling kiss to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, right where the hem of Brittany’s hoodie sits. “I forgot we made that.”

Brittany laughs. “So did I. I guess I moved it out here when I started running out of space in my closet. There’s a couple boxes of my old dance medals back there too.”

“We should open it,” Santana suggests, fingers scratching at Brittany’s stomach from where they rest inside her hoodie pocket.

Brittany grins and nods, slipping her thumb nail under the lip of the lid and sliding it across the slightly rounded edge to cut the old tape. She glances around the garage before motioning in the direction of two lawn chairs in the corner, pulled into the garage to protect them from the bitter autumn rain and impending snow.

Santana nods against Brittany’s shoulder and releases Brittany to lead the way. Brittany plops down in the chair closest to the wall, hidden from the rest of the garage by an old bookshelf. Santana elects to ignore the free chair and plops herself down on Brittany’s lap, sitting sideways so her legs are draped over on of the chair’s armrests and Brittany has to wrap an arm around Santana to keep her from slipping off her lap. Brittany playfully sighs and rolls her eyes as she wraps her arm around Santana’s waist, fingers brushing Santana’s stomach as she rests her palm against the slight dip between hipbone and ribs. Santana grins and takes the box from Brittany’s free hand, setting it in her lap and pushing the lid off until it hangs over the side by a single piece of tape. The box is near overflowing with pictures, some regular sized and others smaller, cut with shaky childish hands as they cut whatever they didn’t like about the photos out until it was just the two of them instead. They pick through the loose pictures together, giggling and kissing and recounting childhood memories frozen in time by the light of a flash.

It’s almost funny, seeing the photographs almost a decade later. Brittany is kind of surprised by how at ease they look, arms thrown around shoulders and hands tangled together, legs draped over laps and hips brushing, having nearly forgotten that back before everything got complicated they were always just _Brittany-and-Santana_. Back then they were just like they are now, almost always touching each other somehow, brushing a strand of hair away, placing a guiding hand on the small of a back, bumping shoulders and hips and elbows together, linking pinkies and tangling hands, nuzzling into shoulders and necks. Brittany hates to remember how hard the long months of their junior year were, the ones where they barely touched, where they barely even talked. Those months when Santana would wince and move away whenever they brushed past each other during a dance number, face tight and breath hitching as her eyes darted over to Artie and then away, the months where Santana would perfectly time leaving class so that she wouldn’t bump into Brittany in the hallway or meet her at their lockers, the months where Santana keep pulling away because of her fear and Brittany keep pushing back because of hers. 

Brittanys leans in and presses a kiss against Santana’s cheek, arms tightening around her, unable to express in words how glad she is that they’re back to being just _Brittany-and Santana_ again. Santana grins at Brittany and goes to returns the cheek-kiss, purposefully missing Brittany’s cheek and catching the corner of her mouth instead, before turning to pick through the box of photographs.

There’s pictures from the summer of third grade all the way to the summer right before high school. Each photo is a memory frozen in time, caught in those yellow-cardboard wrapped disposable cameras. There’s ones with flour dusted cheeks and guilty eyes and a stolen cookie passed between tiny hands, ones with Brittany’s eyes half closed in a blink as she grins at the camera, ones with hands clutched together above a blanket during afternoon naps, ones with a smudge of tan in the bottom left corner that must be Santana’s finger. There’s ones with Brittany’s braids trailing towards the ground as she does a handstand against the side of the school, ones with wet hair stuck to foreheads and bubble covered rubber ducks in the bathtub, ones with Brittany dancing around her room as Santana giggles in the background. There’s ones with a toddler-sized munchkin clapping happily between them as they both kiss her cheeks, ones with Santana’s fingers caught in a cascade of midnight hair and her face red as she hangs upside down from the monkey bars, ones with Brittany in a blur of motion as she chases a giggling Santana, ones with sand caked on kid-thin legs and arms as a sandcastle stands proudly between toothy smiles, ones with Santana bent nearly in two with the force of her laughter, ones with linked pinkies connecting them as they eat lunch one-handed on a school field trip.

There’s pictures there spanning almost five years, and the only common thing tying them all together are the bright, innocent smiles painting their features in pure childlike joy, limbs and hands and memories all tangled together in glossy two-dimension.

“Jesus,” Santana mumbles.

“What?”

Santana looks up at Brittany, her face unreadable for a moment before it opens and blooms into a bashful smile. It’s almost the Brittany-smile Santana shoots her between classes, with crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks, but it’s a little softer, a little more settled. It’s less like her Brittany-smile of school hallways, the one with just a hint of fear swimming in her eyes, just a hint of hesitance in the corners of her mouth, and more like her Brittany-smile of their bedrooms, the one with deep eyes that brim with adoration before darting down, the one that makes Brittany’s heart ache with how sweet and in-love Santana always looks. It’s Santana’s best smile, Brittany knows, the one that means she’s happy and settled and no longer fighting with herself. It’s Brittany’s favourite smile, the one that makes Brittany feel more loved than anything else ever could. 

Santana’s eyes dart back down to look at the picture in her hands, just a little shy. “We looked so in love even back then,” she whispers, brushing a thumb over their frozen faces.

Brittany leans closer to Santana to see the picture, resting her temple against Santana’s bicep. It’s a picture of them frozen at age thirteen, slightly blurry from what’s probably her dad’s shaky hand. It’s summer, bright and warm, new grass under them and blue sky above, half in the shadow of the old buckeye tree in the Pierce’s front yard, the one that Santana still climbs for midnight kisses. They’re sitting right beside each other, hips and stretched out legs pressed together, holding onto each other through their laughter. Brittany has a half-eaten ice cream cone in one hand, tipped precariously close to being completely horizontal, ice cream melting down the side and dripping on her thigh. Santana is wiping a patch of sticky ice cream off her face from where Brittany had just shoved the cone against Santana’s cheek. The camera only caught three-quarters of Santana’s face because she’s turned towards Brittany, partially leaning forward with the force of her laughter, her head thrown back, ponytail swinging from her shoulder; there’s just the scrunched up skin at the corner of her eye and a dimple creasing her cheek caught in the photo, and the brightness that comes from laughing so hard you can barely breathe. Brittany herself is fully caught, adoring and beaming, braids a blur of blonde as they’re flipped over sunburnt shoulders, June freckles scattered like caramel raindrops across cheeks bunching sun-pinked skin up against eyes as blue as the sky above them. Their eyes are caught on each other, summer blue on melting brown, adoring and awed.

Brittany can see what Santana means, that they still look at each other like that, like the only thing that matters is making the other smile, like they fell in love long before they knew what being in love actually was.

“We haven’t changed much,” Brittany agrees.

Santana hums and looks down from her perch on Brittany’s lap, smiling her soft and settled Brittany-smile again. “I love you,” she whispers, surging towards Brittany and kissing her so fast that Brittany’s response is caught somewhere between their lips.

There’s a noise at the garage door but Santana doesn’t start and jerk away, probably because she knows how hard it is to see properly in the dim sunlight streaming through the dusty covered window on the other side of the garage, and probably because she knows they’re hidden from view by the bookshelf looming between them and the door, and probably because even when they really were just best friends they sat like they are now, minus the kissing. 

“Girls?” Brittany’s mom calls.

Santana pulls away from Brittany with a smile, reaching up to wipe her smudged lipgloss from where it’s smeared over the corner of Brittany’s mouth. “Yeah, mom?” Brittany calls.

“You’ve been out here for a while. Did you find the tinder?”

Brittany grins up at Santana. “Nope. We found something better.” Santana smiles down at her, eyes deep and liquid and cheeks bunching into dimples.

“Oh yeah?”

“Remember that memory box you helped us make?” Brittany asks, trailing her fingers over Santana’s side and hip and using the other to trace the yellow box in Santana’s lap. “The yellow one with the stars and the hearts?”

Whitney’s laugh echoes around the garage. “You two were so cute when you came and asked me to help you make that. You had to do all the talking because Santana was too nervous about asking me to spend money.” Santana laughs because, yeah, that’s been true ever since Santana and Brittany had their first playdate and Whitney offered to take them out for ice cream. Santana had been mortified that she had no money, and even more so when Whitney had insisted it was her treat. Brittany laughs too, because Santana is just too adorable most of the time, and squeezes Santana’s hip. “You two were, what, ten? When you started making it?”

“Nine,” Brittany and Santana answer in sync, and then start giggling.

Whitney laughs too. “Oh right. You added to that box every couple months. It must be pretty full.”

“Yeah, we’re not even halfway through them,” Brittany agrees. She doesn’t tell her mom that the real reason they’re not even halfway through the box is because they keep stopping to recount the stories behind each picture, and that each story seems to end in a series of mostly innocent kisses.

“I’m assuming you two will be out here looking through that for a while then?” Whitney asks, her tone implying that she knows something the girls would rather her not know.

Santana tenses on Brittany’s lap and looks helplessly at Brittany. Brittany rubs circles over Santana’s hipbone with the pads of her fingers, her touch soothing even through Santana’s thick sweater, until Santana melts against her, relaxed and trusting. “Yeah, I think so,” Brittany responds. “We’ll skip the fire tonight.”

Whitney agrees and leaves, the door to the garage swinging shut behind her. The picture of them laughing is still clutched in Santana’s hands and she traces their tiny faces, smiling softly at the photo. “This is a good picture,” she murmurs, voice thick.

Brittany agrees with a hum. “Keep it,” she says.

“Britt, I—”

“Keep it,” Brittany repeats.

“But it’s the only copy,” Santana protests.

“Then I guess you’ll have to keep it safe for the both of us,” Brittany teases.

Santana laughs through her nose, ducking down so she can press her forehead against Brittany’s. “I won’t let anything happen to it.”

“You better not,” Brittany warns, nudging her nose against Santana’s until their lips are almost brushing. “We might need it one day.”

“Oh yeah?” Santana challenges, her breath hitching when Brittany’s fingers slide under the hem of her sweater, her warm palm smoothing over the skin beneath her hand.

“Mmm,” Brittany agrees, tilting her head further until her lips barely brush Santana’s with every word, “It would be a good picture for a slideshow or something.”

“A slideshow?” Santana asks knowingly.

“Yeah, you know, the ones they always do of the couple as kids, before they knew each other.”

“Mmm.”

“Except we’d be in all of the ‘before’ pictures too since we’ve known each other for forever.”

Santana’s eyes flutter closed and her smile spreads slowly, blooming across her face; Brittany can’t actually see it but she knows it’s happening because she can feel the muscles bunch where their cheeks brush. “A slideshow,” Santana repeats.

“Yeah, someday,” Brittany breathes.

“Someday,” Santana agrees, and then their lips finally press together and they almost forget about the box of pictures sitting in Santana’s lap, except they don’t, because they need to keep it safe for the future, for someday.

 

* * *

 

October is falling gold and red, bright and new in the bitter chill of wind that nips at exposed skin, biting at fingers and noses and lips; it’s letterman jackets over Cheerio uniforms with pockets big enough to hide tangled fingers if they turn their bodies just the right way, it’s pumpkins surrounding doorways and trailing over porch steps and lining sidewalks, it’s fake cobwebs dripping from almost naked trees and foam-fabric gravestones spotted through yards, and it’s the return of the childlike joy of running through piles of raked leaves, kicking gold into the bright blue sky to float around and stick to inky hair, careful fingers plucking shredded leaf debris and replacing gold with candy-coated kisses.

 

* * *

 

They’re both singing far too loudly for it being a quarter to midnight, sliding across the cold tile and falling into each other as they jump around the kitchen, the microwave humming in the background. The only light is a rectangle of gold spilling in from the hallway, the warm yellow of the microwave streaming across the stove and floor below it, and the shimmer of streetlights in the dining room window sparkling in the nighttime autumn rain.

The days are cold more often than not, now that it’s well into October, which means that they usually wear their letterman jackets to school, sprinting across the parking lot in the morning and after school so their bare legs don’t get too cold under their Cheerios skirts. Brittany has always thought Santana looked exceptionally attractive in her letterman jacket, but this is the first year that telling Santana is met with a blushing smile and an attack of kisses instead of the defensive arrogance and the choking fear and the hint of longing from their junior year and before. A lot of things have changed between them, where Santana allows herself to want the things she’s always thought she can’t have, and Brittany allows herself to love Santana without the fear of pushing her away. They’re changing, just a little, subtle changes that Brittany never even notices until she looks back on where they are and where they’ve been; but in a lot of ways, nothing has changed at all.

Which is why, making a bag of popcorn at quarter to midnight on a Friday, dancing and singing around Santana’s empty kitchen in sleep shorts and oversized hoodies, Santana’s contact lenses exchanged for her glasses hours ago, socked feet slipping across the floor as they fall into each other’s arms, isn’t really different at all. They’ve been doing this since long before they admitted they were in love, and probably long before they were even in love too. They’ve always been inseparable ever since that first week of kindergarten, and Brittany’s so glad that they haven’t really changed at all, regardless of the whole helplessly-and-hopelessly-head-over-heels-in-love-with-each-other part.

“ _Girl, I know you love it,_ ” Brittany sings, spinning and twirling Santana around and under her arm. Santana bumps into Brittany’s side, giggling, as she slides away from Brittany. “ _How we’re smart enough to make these millions. Strong enough to bear the children, then get back to business._ ” The popcorn’s stopped popping by now and the microwave is making those reminder beeps it does, but neither of them really notice, too caught up in goofily dancing around the kitchen with each other. “ _See you better not play me, don’t come here, baby. Hope you still like me. If you pay me._ ” Brittany spins away from Santana, releasing her so she can dance around, over-exaggeratedly shaking her ass with a wide grin as Santana bends over in a fit of giggles. She slinks towards Santana, putting on her bedroom eyes as she presses herself to Santana’s back and slides her hands to Santana’s hips, trying to hold in her own laughter. “ _My persuasion can build a nation. Endless power, our love we can devour,_ ” she husks in Santana’s ear, grinning when, despite a full body shiver, Santana continues to giggle.

Santana spins in Brittany’s arms and places her own over Brittany’s shoulders, elbows locked straight and hands dangling over Brittany’s back. “ _You’ll do anything for me,_ ” she sings lowly, her natural rasp deepening until Brittany feels heat curl low in her belly. 

Brittany swallows, leaning down to Santana’s ear until her lips brush the shell of it, “ _Who run the world?_ ” she breathes, waiting for Santana’s breath to hitch before she grins and presses her lips to Santana’s cheek, shrieking “ _Girls!_ ” against Santana’s skin.

“Brittany!” Santana gasps. Brittany giggles as Santana swats playfully at her, capturing the hand hitting her shoulder and spinning Santana under her arm and away, pulling her back in as she continues to sing too loudly.

It’s the flash of a camera that alerts them to the fact that they aren’t alone and they slide to a stop, Brittany’s arms wrapped around Santana from behind in the middle of a spin, their voices dying abruptly as they look up to see Santana’s mom standing in the entrance to the kitchen, her blue scrubs almost black in the poorly lit room, her phone held out in from of her as she snaps another picture of their startled faces.

“Mami,” Santana manages to sputter in shock and in fear and in horror.

Maribel smiles at them. “You two are cute,” she says, bringing her phone closer to her face to flick through her newly snapped pictures. 

Santana unfreezes and slips out from Brittany’s arms, sending her a wide-eyed look as she heads for the microwave to pull the popcorn out, managing to convey helpless and apologetic and self-reproachful all at once. 

“I can add this one to the collection,” Maribel continues, glancing up at them with the sly look that’s an exact mirror to Santana’s own plotting look, the hollow of her cheeks deepening, lips thinning and widening, brows drawn low over dark eyes glowing mischievously as they crinkle in a smirk.

Santana pauses in opening the popcorn bag. “Collection?” she asks suspiciously.

Maribel’s smirk widens as she motions for the two girls to follow her into the living room. Santana glances at Brittany, who shrugs in response. Santana tosses the popcorn bag on the counter and follows her mom to the living room, Brittany trailing after. Her mom is crouched by the shelf of photo albums beside the television stand, the paused first scene of _West Side Story_ painting the living room in blueish light, her finger tracing over the album spines until she pulls a worn, maroon one from its place with a small chuckle. She sits on the middle cushion of couch and pats the seat beside her, which Santana takes warily, Brittany flopping beside her, somehow gracelessly graceful as she sprawls on the couch, squishing against Santana so they can both fit on the one cushion, leaning her head against the front of Santana’s so she can see the album too. 

Maribel opens the album and Santana and Brittany both have to smile. The first page is a blown up picture of them covering the entire eight-by-ten plastic cover. They’re about five years old, bodies stiff and hands held rigidly out between them, heads of blonde and dark brunette hair bent together as they stare intently at their feet, Brittany trying to lead Santana through the steps of a waltz her dad had taught her a couple days before. Santana and Brittany glance at each other and burst out laughing, because while they’ve come so far in a lot of ways, they’re still those two girls teaching each other dance in a lot of ways too.

Maribel smiles fondly at the two girls. “I was going through some old pictures about five years ago,” her voice grows tense and Santana shifts against her, both of them thinking about the hasty packing up of all their things that followed her messy divorce from Santana’s father when Santana was twelve. The same divorce that resulted in Santana and her mom moving out of their expensive and opulent house in Lima Heights and into their slightly rundown but affordable and cozy house in Lima Heights Adjacent; the divorce that resulted in her father moving from town and taking his practice with him, cutting Lima down from four family doctors to three, and cutting Santana down from two parents to one.

Maribel clears her throat and smiles down that the album, tracing her thumb over the glossy plastic covering the photo. “I noticed a pattern in a lot of the photos with you two,” she explains. She turns the page to reveal five-by-seven sized photos, all of them showing Brittany and Santana from about age five to six, all of them dancing. “You two were always doing something together, but a lot of the photos I have of you two, you’re dancing,” she continues, flipping the page to show more pictures of them, one of them from the grandparent’s tea in second grade when Brittany had tried to teach Santana to box step, her gramma and poppa dancing beside them, demonstrating the dance and explaining the steps through laughter at Brittany’s intense concentration and Santana’s adoring smile. Brittany and Santana turn to look at each other, smiles widening because, yeah, they have been dancing together for forever. “I decided to start an album to see how much of it I could fill with just pictures of you two dancing, and I haven’t stopped adding to it.”

They continue to flip through the album, the young versions of themselves gradually aging and dancing together more confidently. There’s pictures of them doing the Macarena in third grade, Santana handing Brittany a bouquet of flowers after Brittany’s first solo in her fifth grade dance recital, practicing cheerleading routines when they joined the Junior Cheerios in middle school, dancing with the munchkin caught between them at Brittany’s cousin’s wedding in grade nine. There’s pictures of a blurry Brittany jumping around a laughing Santana and a softly smiling Quinn before their first Cheerios practice, a selfie from their first high school dance when they did each other’s hair and makeup, dressed in royal blue button-ups and black ties with their arms wrapped around each other and beaming at the camera after their first invitational, a slightly blurry photo of a television screen that captures Brittany and Santana laughing and clutching each other as they stumble across a mattress, the stage lights caught in gold dresses at Regionals as they clapped along to the beat with half of Finn’s arm beside Brittany and Kurt’s face frozen as he holds his note beside Santana. There’s pictures of their _Rocky Horror_ costumes taking up most of the screen in a selfie as they crowd around Mercedes before their first dress rehearsal, the back of an audience member’s head covering the bottom half of their bodies as Santana sings into a microphone and beckons a breathlessly grinning Brittany closer to her, their arms around each other in a picture taken by Karofsky’s shaking hands away from prying eyes in a dimly lit corner of the gym before the prom king and queen announcements. And, finally, there’s a candid photo that neither of them realized had been taken, the kitchen lit only by the streetlights and the summer moon, dancing goofily around each other in sleep shorts and hoodies and socks.

Maribel lights up her phone and places it, her most recent picture of them dancing in the dark kitchen, over the empty spot in the album beside the one from summer, smiling at Santana and Brittany. “Now I have a new one,” she teases.

“Mami,” Santana complains, rolling her eyes fondly.

Maribel just laughs in response. “Well, it’s late and I’m picking up an overtime shift tomorrow morning, so I’m heading off to bed,” Maribel announces, handing the album to Santana and groaning when her back cracks as she stands. “Don’t stay up too late, you two,” she warns, bending to press a kiss first to Santana’s forehead, and then to Brittany’s, before she heads for her bedroom down the hall. “Goodnight and love you,” she calls over her shoulder, Brittany and Santana chorusing the same in response.

Santana stares down at the album in her lap, smiling softly. “This is so dorky,” she murmurs, and Brittany knows she really means _I love my mom_. Brittany grins too and snuggles closer to Santana, their heads bent together and shoulders pressed against each other as they flip through the album again, laughing and narrating the moment each photo caught. 

They kind of forget about the cooling popcorn on the kitchen counter, and the half-eaten bag of candy on the coffee table in front of them, and the paused movie still waiting for someone to hit play, and the fact that they should probably sleep on an actual bed.

Instead Santana wakes up the next morning wrapped around Brittany, still on the couch, her head nestled against Brittany’s shoulder and under her chin, their arms and legs tangled together. The photo album is sitting on the coffee table beside their bag of candy, her glasses folded and resting on top of it, and the old knitted afghan that’s usually draped over the love-seat, whose origins Santana is still unsure of, is tucked in around them. The faint smell of coffee and silent house indicates that her mom has already left for her shift at the hospital.

Brittany sighs and tightens her arms around Santana and tugs her closer against her, humming in contentment as Santana tugs the blanket up her shoulders and settles against Brittany again. Brittany rolls closer to Santana, trapping her between her body and the back of the couch, mumbling something about dancing with unicorns. Santana smiles and presses her lips to the soft skin of Brittany’s neck, tightening her own arms around Brittany and settling comfortably against her as she drifts back to sleep, surrounded by warmth and love.

 

* * *

 

October comes and goes in the quiet moments, with childlike growing excitement as they promise to take the munchkin trick-or-treating, with cold fingers pressed playfully into cheeks and smearing pumpkin guts all over bare arms, with stomach aches from too much candy and teasing fingers slipping under hoodies to rub soothingly over soft skin, with a slowly growing self-confidence in one and a steady pride glowing in another as a dancer sneaks into the back of the auditorium and cheers embarrassingly loudly as the final note of an audition fades in the vast space, beaming and clapping, Anita fading back into her self as she looks up into the bright lights of the stage and find the source of applause, lighting up from within as she exits stage left.

 

* * *

 

The first week of November is damp and drizzly, the sky an oppressive grey that hangs over Lima and promises snow but never delivers, just showers the town in cold autumn rain. The first week of November is when Santana, ridiculous, sweet, adorable Santana, finally clues in to the fact that they’ve been dating since before the start of summer, and that all of those picnics at the park and dinners at Breadstix and morning coffee runs to the Lima Bean and movie nights at the theatre and in their living rooms were dates; and if they’re going by that rule then they’ve definitely been dating since before the start of summer and, honestly, going by that rule, they’ve kind of been dating for years. Sex isn’t dating, but constantly going on dates and being kind of ridiculously in love sort of counts as dating.

Santana laughs and shakes her head when Brittany tells her this, wrapped up in each other for a movie night. “I can’t believe I was so slow on the uptake,” she says against Brittany’s shoulder. They’re stretched out lengthwise on the Lopez’s living room couch with the promise of alone time, Santana’s mom off working a night shift during their usual Friday night sleepover, Santana half on the cushions and half on Brittany and squished against the back of the couch, legs tangled together and arms tight around each other, the movie casting them in blue light.

Brittany giggles against Santana’s head, pursing her lips so she can brush a kiss across her hairline. “You’re pretty ridiculous sometimes,” she agrees.

Santana shifts and nips teasingly at the pale skin near her mouth, making Brittany’s breath hitch when she feels lips and teeth and tongue brushing against her neck. “I’m _your_ ridiculous,” Santana teases.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Brittany breathes.

“But it makes some sense,” Santana says, her lips starting to trail up towards Brittany’s jaw as she shifts against the length of her body, propping herself partially up on her elbow to gain some leverage as she nips and sucks at Brittany’s skin.

“Barely,” Brittany argues, trying to ignore the hitch in her breathing and the rasp in her voice and the heat curling low in her belly. 

“Mmm,” Santana agrees, her mouth now sucking just behind Brittany’s ear as her fingers slip under Brittany’s shirt and dance across her abs. Brittany arches towards Santana, her fingers sliding against Santana’s sides and catching on her hips, digging into the skin there in attempts to anchor herself back to earth.

“You’re awful,” Brittany whines.

“That’s not what you said earlier,” Santana husks against her, lips brushing teasingly over the shell of her ear. 

“Well, yeah, I mean,” Brittany rasps as Santana’s lips start trailing towards her mouth.

“Yeah,” Santana agrees, settling herself more fully on Brittany and finally pressing their lips together, her tongue sliding across Brittany’s bottom lip and into her mouth as Brittany opens under her. 

The movie continues in the background, casting blue, then red, and then yellow light over the living room and painting them in the harsh glow of the television screen. An orchestra crescendos and then cuts off abruptly, the vibrato of the stringed instruments humming lowly as the climax of the movie starts to build, frantic conversation echoing loudly over the violins and cellos holding steady. Their kisses slow as the frenetic energy of the movie’s peak builds. Santana’s hand stills on Brittany’s skin and settles in the dip between her ribs and hipbone, Brittany’s fingers relax against Santana’s hips and slide to the small of her back, their mouths softening and melting together as they exchange languid kisses.

The moment is broken only by Brittany’s stomach rumbling against Santana’s, both of them pulling back and allowing their eyes to flutter open and catch on the other, bursting into giggles as soon as their gaze meets.

“How are you still hungry?” Santana giggles, poking at Brittany’s stomach.

Brittany tickles across Santana’s side in retaliation, grinning when she squirms on top of her. “My date took me for a really early supper after school and then made me work all that food off as soon as her mom left by jumping me in the hallway.”

Santana doesn’t even blush at Brittany’s suggestive look, just grins, wide and proud and unapologetic. “Well, your date should probably get you some popcorn for the rest of the movie so you don’t starve.”

Brittany grins as her stomach rumbles again. “Probably.”

Santana presses a quick kiss to the corner of Brittany’s mouth, and then presses a couple more just because she can, before she clambers off Brittany. Brittany yawns and stretches against the couch, smirking when Santana’s eyes drift to her exposed abs as her shirt rises up, before she sits up and stands.

Santana’s eyes dart up to Brittany’s and soften. “You can stay here if you want, I’ll just be a couple minutes.”

Brittany grabs Santana’s hand and tangles their fingers together. “You might forget the popcorn and I can’t risk it.”

Santana laughs and rolls her eyes, tugging Brittany down the hall and towards the kitchen. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

“Nope,” Brittany agrees happily, popping her _p_ as she trails after Santana.

Santana releases Brittany’s hand once they reach the kitchen so she can crouch down and sort through the Lopez snack cupboard, mostly filled with granola bars and those fake fruit snacks for before Cheerios practice, orange juice boxes and some boxes of Dots for whenever Brittany’s over, and those salted peanuts flavoured in chilli lime spice her mom loves. Brittany leans back against the kitchen island so she can better admire Santana’s ass in her sleep shorts as she’s bent over, unabashedly staring because they are girlfriends and she now has an monopoly on all admiration of Santana’s backside. Santana paws through the cupboard for a moment before she emerges with a bag of popcorn, the box pushed to the back to make room for the pretzels Brittany and Santana had picked up earlier when they were craving something salty but hadn’t eaten yet. She takes the plastic wrap off of the bag as she stands, giving Brittany a sly, knowing look as she crosses the kitchen to put the bag in the microwave, setting it on the popcorn option. 

“Do you want some water, babe?” Santana asks. She passes Brittany to reach the other side of the kitchen, opening the cupboard above the toaster and reaching in to pull out two plastic cups, setting them on the counter as she turns to give Brittany a questioning look when she doesn’t answer right away.

Brittany’s breath is still caught and she can feel her heart melting in her chest. “Santana,” she breathes, soft and awed and smiling widely.

“What?” Santana asks, her own smile growing even while she remains confused by Brittany’s grin.

“You just called me _babe_ ,” Brittany explains.

Santana’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops open a little in shock. “I— I just— I mean— Because— Because we’re, you know,” she stutters.

Brittany knows exactly what Santana means, but it’s really fun to tease and fluster Santana about little things like this because she’s so easy to work up, so she pouts a little and shakes her head.

Santana’s a little breathless and her cheeks are pinking even under her tan skin, all the way to the tips of her ears. “Well, because we’re girlfriends,” she finally manages to say, her voice small and bright.

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, taking quick steps to reach Santana with her hands clasped behind her back, nudging their noses together until Santana’s face stretches into a wide smile, “yeah we are, _girlfriend_.”

“Yeah,” Santana breathes, and then tilts her head back and captures Brittany’s lips with hers. Brittany smiles and hums against Santana’s lips, nipping at the bottom one and then running her tongue along it. Santana’s hands tug at the hem of her sleep shorts, the backs of her knuckles brushing against Brittany’s thighs; Brittany’s hands remain behind her back, twisting together as she rocks into the kiss. When she pulls back, Santana is a little dazed, her eyes bright and clear. “Is that okay?” Santana asks, her voice all tiny and soft and nervous, “That I call you ‘babe’? I can call you something else, if you want.”

Brittany smiles and steps so close that every time Santana breathes in and Brittany breathes out their bodies brush. She teases Santana’s hands away from her shorts and tangles their fingers together, grinning when Santana melts against her, relaxed and boneless. “It’s perfect, _babe._ ”

Santana still looks a little dazed and her smile turns goofy and gooey, her dark eyes bright and liquid, and her dimple begging to be kissed. Brittany obliges, pressing a lingering kiss to the crease in Santana’s cheek. “I like that,” Santana breathes as Brittany pulls back, her lips temptingly curling upwards into her settled Brittany-smile, and Brittany has to oblige the siren call again.

“Yeah,” she agrees, pressing her lips to Santana’s, “so do I.”

 

* * *

 

November is crimson sunsets and migrating birds as the wind turns more cold than cool, whipping hair into eyes and mouths as they sprint towards the warmth of spice scented homes; it’s the scent of the earth ripening and settling as it readies itself for the coming winter snow, it’s choking fear and crumbling bravery as their love is poked and prodded at by people who have never tried to understand, and it’s just them, standing upright and strong, hands tangled together in the face of everything they’ve both feared, in the face of outing and stares and talks and people trying to take their love and make it into something else, except neither of them run away this time, they run towards each other instead.

 

* * *

 

There’s movement at the door just as Santana is dozing off against Brittany, spent from the long week and the long day and her emotions and the fact that everything she’s been working towards for the past six months just got completely beaten down by careless teenage self-absorption until she was shoved out of the closet with nothing to hold onto but Brittany’s hand and her own crumbling courage. Brittany stiffens, glaring across the room and tightening her arms protectively around Santana as the door creaks slowly open.

It’s just Mercedes, and Sugar hovering behind her. “Hey, girl,” Mercedes says, her voice softly carrying across the room, “can we come in?”

Brittany relaxes and nods because the Troubletones have been so supportive over this whole mess, from when Santana came running and sobbing into the practice room and fell upon Brittany, and up to when Santana had jumped down from the stage, fear so thick Brittany could almost taste it in the tense air until she felt like she was choking as she sang. Mercedes had cleared the room for them and kept an eye on both of them as they got ready for their performance, offering to cancel or postpone it without even knowing what was wrong; and Sugar had done Brittany’s hair when Santana was too shaky to do it herself, offering to hire a hitman for whoever hurt them even before knowing what was wrong. 

Santana stirs against Brittany but settles when a soothing hand smooths down her back. Mercedes and Sugar slip into the room and shut the door quietly behind them, leaving the lights off and the room in the semi-darkness of the late afternoon sun streaming in the windows as they crept across the room. 

After Santana had slapped Finn and fled Brittany had jumped of the stage after her. She had hesitated, just for a second, trying to decide if she had enough time to scream at Finn too, until she heard the auditorium door swing open and made up her mind, sending Finn a withering glare that had him shifting awkwardly in his seat before chasing after her desperately terrified girlfriend. They had ended up in the Troubletones practice room because, since defecting from the New Directions, it was the only room where Santana felt safe; and because of that, and because of how easily Mercedes took everything Santana did or said in stride, Santana always allowed herself to be a bit more herself there. Since Brittany already knew about that fucking ad, all she could do was pull Santana into her arms and sink to the floor, back against the wall and face wet with her own tears. She was helpless because there was nothing she could say or do to fix this, she could only listen to Santana’s heart shatter, feeling the break echo in her own chest, and hope that if she held Santana tight enough she could keep her from falling apart.

Mercedes sits down on the floor, cross-legged, in front of Brittany and Santana, Sugar settling herself beside Mercedes. Sugar looks close to crying, her eyes teary with emotion and her arms wrapped around her legs and chin resting on her knees, almost childlike as she stares wide-eyed at them. Mercedes sends Santana a worried glance, concern and confusion swimming in her eyes. “Is she alright?” she whispers.

Brittany swallows, because there’s the million dollar question. “I don’t know,” she admits honestly. “She will be, I think, eventually.”

Mercedes nods slowly and seems to think for a long moment before searching Brittany’s face for something. A small, knowing smile slowly spreads across her face, her eyes bright with something warm and careful and kind. “So,” she drawls, “You and Santana,” she trails off and raises her eyebrows suggestively, and Brittany can feel herself blush before she can stop it, which is probably answer enough. 

Brittany spares a brief thought for waking and consulting Santana first before nodding confirming Mercedes question and reinforcing it with her darkening blush; because Santana does truly like Mercedes because she treats Santana like a real friend and Brittany like she’s not stupid, and since everything’s kind of already been forced into the light, and it’s kind of obvious now to anyone with a working pair of eyes, and Santana trusts her to be careful with them, and Brittany would never abuse that trust because their thing is too precious to be careless with.

“You knew?” she murmurs, unable to help herself as she smiles down at Santana.

Mercedes smiles softly as her eyes drift fondly to Brittany’s hand stroking up and down Santana’s back. “Between the party line call in sophomore year and the spat you two had during the duet competition and then everything with Artie last year? And that whole _Landslide_ performance and the Fondue for Two thing last year?” Mercedes chuckles a little, but it’s not teasing or cruel, just amused and affectionate. “I suspected. But as for when I knew for sure? Just watching you two during Troubletones practice was enough.”

Brittany smiles and feels her blush darken because, yeah, when Santana allows herself to be a little bit more herself, like she does in the Troubletones practice room, she gets touchy. Or, at least, she gets more touchy than she already is when they’re trying to show the world that they’re just best friends. And when Santana gets more touchy she alway needing to have at least one part of her in contact with Brittany; a pinky link or a shoulder massage, fixing a messy ponytail or tugging on the back of a letterman jacket, tossing legs over a lap or standing close enough to brush shoulders and hips and thighs. “I guess we weren’t exactly subtle, huh?” Brittany says conversationally.

Mercedes and Sugar both let out snorts in such sync that’s it’s almost impressive. “Not exactly,” Mercedes agrees, “I mean, I’m pretty sure even Karofsky could see you two were in love when he was dating Santana last year, and he’s dumber than a sack of potatoes.”

Brittany giggles and presses a kiss to Santana’s forehead as she stirs against her, waiting until Santana has reburied her face in Brittany’s neck and her grip around Brittany’s dress has relaxed again before she glances back at the other Troubletones.

“There’s an ad,” she starts to explain and squeezes her eyes shut, because Santana always tells her to get things over with and rip them off like a bandaid, which doesn’t make a lot of sense to Brittany since she’s pretty sure you can’t bandage a heart because, if you could, Brittany would have already patched up the bleeding pieces of Santana’s. “A campaign ad from that smelly pizza guy running against Coach for congress. It’s a— It’s a smear campaign against her, questioning her character.” Mercedes and Sugar are silent, and Brittany can almost taste their confusion like she could taste Santana’s fear earlier, in the dressing room and on stage. Brittany opens her eyes and meets Mercedes’ and Sugar’s gaze in turn, dark like midnight and then warm like coffee. “When Finn outed Santana in the hallway,” she says, voice low and full of a boiling anger deep in her stomach and chest she had never felt before, at least, not until a couple days ago when Santana had stumbled over her words as she explained what had happened, “someone overheard and told their uncle, the smelly pizza guy.”

Mercedes’ eyes widen until they look more white than not against her dark irises, her quiet gasping _no_ is choked, caught in her chest; Sugar’s hands fly to her face and she looks close to tears, blinking furiously as she shakes her head in horror; both girls can see where this is going. Brittany just tightens her arms around Santana, burying her face in dark hair for a second, breathing in citrus and vanilla and pinewood, Sugar’s borrowed hairspray and courage, before she forces herself to look back up at Mercedes and Sugar.

“The ad outs Santana.”

Mercedes and Sugar both swallow thickly and stare at Brittany, pain and anger and horror painting both their features in tense, pinched looks. Brittany looks back down and tightens her arms around Santana again, wondering if she could put all the pieces of their hearts back together just by keeping them wrapped up in each other for the rest of forever, because Brittany understands things like limits and infinity and forever, and she understands that she needs Santana with her and her heart whole for any of it to really count.

“Her parents don’t know about us,” she confesses softly, “About her,” she trails off, not wanting to give away Santana’s deepest secret even though it’s already been shoved into the open.

Mercedes eyes cloud and Sugar winces a little, glancing down at her hands, and Brittany can almost see the way everything from the practice room to the auditorium replays on the inside of their eyelids.

“Brittany, I’m so sorry,” Mercedes finally says, her voice a little choked. “That— He— I mean—” she sighs in frustration and curls her hands into fists, looking up at Brittany with bright, almost protective anger, burning in her eyes. “What can we do to help?”

Brittany thinks for a long moment and remembers the way Santana had kept repeating _The ad says_ and _Tonight at eight_ and _She still doesn’t know yet_ and _I have to tell her before_ when she had broke down earlier. “Can you help me get her home?” she finally asks, “Her mom drove us this morning and we need to talk to her at home before— Before she sees the ad.”

“Is she,” Mercedes starts to ask and then trails off at the pained look on Brittany’s face, her normally bright blue eyes dull and tired.

“We don’t know,” Brittany admits. “I mean, I think she’s— But we just— We just don’t know.”

Mercedes nods once, and then again, and then gives Brittany a shaky, supportive smile. “Of course we’ll help you,” she promises, glancing at Sugar. Sugar doesn’t say anything, just stares wide-eyed at them, something intimately painful swimming in her teary eyes, but she nods fiercely, wringing her hands together like how Santana does sometimes. 

“Thank you,” Brittany murmurs. “Do you two mind—” she trails off as Mercedes automatically nods and stands, waiting for Sugar to do the same before she smiles down at Brittany and Santana.

“I’ll pull my car around to the front, okay?” Mercedes asks, waiting until Brittany nods before she turns to Sugar. “Do you know where their bags are in the dressing room?” Sugar nods eagerly and darts out of the room before Mercedes can continue, Mercedes following more slowly, giving Brittany a fond eye roll at their youngest Troubletone.

When the door clicks closed behind them Brittany allows her self one long moment of silent tears before she takes a shaky breath and wipes her hand across her face, hoping to erase any evidence of her own pain before she wakes Santana. Once her tears are dried and her mascara is cleaned up as best she can without a mirror, she runs her hands over Santana’s back with a little more pressure, murmuring softly against her temple. 

Brittany can tell Santana doesn’t remember everything right away, because she wakes up with a hum of contentment for a too-short moment before she stiffens and shoots upright, almost slamming her head into the bottom of Brittany’s chin. “Britt,” she chokes out, but Brittany is already there, guiding Santana back to her shoulder and pressing kisses to any place her lips can reach, running her hands down Santana’s back until she relaxes against her.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she murmurs, “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Santana takes a shuddering breath, but Brittany can tell she’s calmed down slightly by the wet kiss she feels against her neck. “I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you too,” Brittany sighs back, tightening her hold on Santana until she pulls back.

“Britt,” Santana says helplessly.

Brittany smoothes dark hair back from Santana’s face, tucking the strands that had escaped her ponytail behind her ears. “I know, honey, I know. But I’m going to come home with you and we’ll talk to your mom together, okay?”

Santana swallows thickly, her dark eyes darting between Brittany’s blue ones. “Britt, I’m scared,” she confesses.

“So am I,” Brittany replies honestly, running her fingers against Santana’s neck and across her shoulders and down her arms until she can tangle their fingers together. “But whatever happens, we’ll do it together, okay?”

Santana nods and searches Brittany’s face for a long moment before she releases one of Brittany’s hands to reach up and swipe her thumb under Brittany’s eye, the pad of her thumb coming back splotched with dark ink. “You were crying,” she murmurs, searching Brittany’s eyes for an explanation.

Brittany sighs and tips her head forward, staring at Santana’s cheekbone instead of meeting her eyes. “I just don’t like seeing you in pain,” she admits.

Santana sighs and ducks her head to catch Brittany’s eyes. “I don’t like seeing you in pain either.” They’re silent for a long moment until Santana takes a deep breath. “The ad outs you too,” she says quietly.

Brittany is already shaking her head before Santana finishes talking. “Not like that. Not like you.”

“Britt—”

“No, I’m only outed here where people know you and me, not to everyone in Ohio.” Santana winces because it’s true, but shakes her head because all this affects Brittany more than she’s admitting, because she’s playing it down for Santana and they both know it. “And even then I’ve never really hid that I like girls and boys. I’ll be okay,” she promises.

Santana closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, releasing Brittany’s hands so she can cup her face in her palms, Brittany’s own hands automatically rising to catch Santana’s and hold them against her cheeks. “How did I get so lucky?” she murmurs.

Brittany turns her head to press a long kiss to the centre of Santana’s left palm, and then does the same to the right. “You didn’t. You just couldn’t read the board ‘cause you’re stubborn and didn’t wear your glasses in kindergarten.”

Santana lets out a small laugh, her smile genuine for the first time since she came crashing into the practice room earlier. “Well I’m glad I was so stubborn and blind back then.”

“So am I,” Brittany agrees. Santana’s quiet hum is against caught against Brittany’s lips as she kisses her. Brittany pulls away after long moments, squeezing her fingers gently against Santana’s hands. “We should go, get it over with.” Santana takes a deep breath and then nods, allowing Brittany to pull her up into a hug and then lead her out of the room.

The car ride is silent save for the quiet radio, Santana subdued against Brittany’s shoulder, staring blankly out the window. Brittany keeps her one arm wrapped tightly around Santana despite the seatbelt digging into her skin, her other hand playing with Santana’s fingers in her lap, occasionally catching Mercedes’ concerned gaze in the rearview mirror. Even Sugar remains quiet in the passenger seat, pretending she’s not nervously wringing her hands as her eyes dart around the car. They reach Santana’s neighbourhood and pull into her driveway under Brittany’s soft directions, and Santana can’t even bring herself to feel embarrassed about Mercedes and Sugar seeing where she lives, the only other people at McKinley High School besides Brittany who’ve seen her house. Lima Heights Adjacent isn’t really the _worst_ neighbourhood in Lima, but it’s definitely up there. It’s safe, more or less, mostly just old duplexes that probably need to get fumigated and townhouses with slightly crumbling foundations, one of the town’s two trailer parks just a row of old houses and a back alley away.

The four girls sit in silence for a long moment after Mercedes cuts the engine. Santana’s fear is bubbling deep in her stomach, rising up and choking her, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her nose. Brittany keeps running her fingers across Santana’s hands, pressing each knuckle like a piano key and tracing a small scar from when they were seven and tried to clean up a vase they had accidentally broken.

“We’ll wait here,” Mercedes finally says, “Just in case— I mean— To drive Brittany home, after— After everything.”

Brittany nods and is about to thank her when Santana beats her to it. “Thanks, ‘Cedes. And you too, Sugar. For— For being there.”

Mercedes catches Santana’s eye in the rearview mirror and something like understanding passes between them. “Of course,” Mercedes says, “we’re Troubletones, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

Santana gives her a small smile, affectionately shoving Sugar in the shoulder as she clambers out of the car after Brittany, leaving their bags in the backseat just in case—

The walk to the door is not nearly long enough, and because both of their house keys are in their bags Brittany has to ring the doorbell. And then they wait, pinkies linked, Brittany shifting her weight to one foot and kicking the other back and behind her leg, Santana trying to swallow her nausea and hoping her legs start working again when she hears her mom’s footsteps behind the door.

Maribel Lopez opens the door and immediately knows something is wrong, taking the entire scene in with growing worry. Her daughter and her daughter’s best friend, who is more like a second daughter, really, are standing on the porch, still in their performance dresses, looking like fear is growing within them by the second, both of their faces tight and shiny, mascara smudged under their eyes. Brittany’s car isn’t in the driveway like it usually is when the two girls are over at the Lopez’s house, instead it’s a silver BMW with two girls Maribel vaguely recognizes as other glee club members.

Maribel’s eyes dart between the two girls in front of her before she steps forwards and takes their hands, the ones not linked at their pinkies, in her own. “ _Mijas_ , what’s going on?”

Santana opens and closes her mouth a couple times, fighting with her chest and her throat and her fear to try and speak before she looks helplessly at Brittany. Brittany swallows and nods, turning back to the woman who’s always been like a second mother to her. “We need to talk to you.”

Maribel nods instantly, her brow furrowing just like Santana’s does as she pulls them into the house, casting a glance at the car in the driveway before shutting the door behind her. She ushers the girls into the kitchen, the scent of the pulled pork cooking in the slow cooker filling the room. The two girls sit at the island stools, staring at each other with heartsick eyes. Maribel decides to give them a moment to compose themselves, moving to the counter beside the stove and checking on supper, using two forks to tear the pulled pork apart before tossing the utensils into the sink and recovering the slow cooker. When she turns back, Santana and Brittany are still staring at each other, faces pinched in almost identical looks of pain. She walks to the counter and leans on it, eyes darting between the two girls until the silence stretches on too long and she has to break it.

“ _Mija_ ,” Maribel says, waiting until both girls look at her, “what’s wrong?” Her gaze darts between the two girls sitting with stiff backs and tense shoulders.

Santana swallows thickly and looks helplessly at Brittany. Brittany’s hands twist around Santana’s beneath the counter, trying to massage comfort into the muscles and bones beneath tan skin. Santana glances at her mom again, unable to meet her eyes, looking just past her shoulder and out the kitchen window above the sink. “Mami,” she manages, voice quiet and trembling, “I’m gay,” she says, and then the tears start to fall.

Maribel blinks, and for one incredibly long split second Santana’s _sure_ she’s about to be told to pack her bags and leave. But then Maribel’s face clears and softens and she reaches for Santana’s free hand, closing both of hers over it, leaning over the counter so she’s closer to Santana. “Oh, _mija_ ,” she murmurs, bringing Santana’s hand to face and pressing a kiss to the knuckles, “I love you, so much, and I don’t care about who you do or don’t love.”

Santana takes a shuddering breath, tears stinging her eyes for what feels like the millionth time that week, making her face feel tight and sticky as they fall. “R- Really?” she sobs.

Maribel presses another kiss to the knuckles in her hand. “Of course not, _mija_ , and I’m sorry I ever gave you any reason to doubt that I wouldn’t love you if you were true to yourself. I’m your mami, and my only job is to love you because of who you are.” 

Santana manages a smile through her tears. “Thank you, mami,” she mumbles, “I love you too.” Brittany releases one of her hands from around Santana’s and reaches up to wipe the tears from her face. Santana shoots her a grateful smile as Brittany brushes dark hair back from her face.

Maribel presses Santana’s hand to her cheek and glances between her daughter and Brittany knowingly, watching the way Brittany carefully catches tears on her thumb and gently drys Santana’s face, and the way Santana gives this small, grateful, adoring smile in response. “You two are together,” Maribel says out loud, and as she says it she’s struck by how she never realized it before. She had suspected, of course, that they had slept together; she’s not stupid, or deaf. And she knows how much they care for each other, but looking at the two girls now, she feels a little dumb that she hadn’t realized how in love they are until this very moment.

Santana looks at her mom and swallows thickly, giving a small nod.

Maribel turns her steady gaze on Brittany. “Do you love her?” she asks.

Brittany doesn’t even hesitate as she turns to look at Santana’s mom, her hand falling from Santana’s face to join it with her other one around Santana’s hand, settling them on their lap and playing with their fingers. “More than anything. I’ve loved her since that day in kindergarten when she let me help her read the board because she didn’t want anyone know she wore glasses. And I’ve been in love with her since the day I dared her to kiss me under that oak tree in the park and she did. Or maybe even before that even though people always say I’m too young to know about love. Sometimes it feels like I’ve loved her forever. She’s my best friend and my favourite person ever and I love her more and more everyday. And even though everyone always tells me I’m wrong about most things, I know I’m right about this, I know I’m right about this one thing.” Brittany breaks her gaze away from Maribel to look at Santana, eyes bright and warm. “Loving her is my best thing,” she whispers, her words meant more for Santana than for Santana’s mother.

Maribel smiles at Brittany, her heart aching with happy sorrow; she had always known the day would come when her little girl—when _both_ her little girls—would grow up, she just hadn’t thought it would come so soon. But despite the ache in her chest at the fact that the two girls sitting across from her are not so little anymore, she can’t help but be unconditionally grateful that they are growing up together, happy and in love. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for Santana,” she promises.

Santana swallows thickly and glances away from Brittany to look at her mom, except she still can’t meet her eyes and ends up studying the blinds of the kitchen window, just past her mom’s ear. “So you’re really okay with— With us being together? With me—” Santana’s voice breaks and becomes small and quiet, “With me being gay?” She finally manages to meet her mom’s gaze and is both surprised and not at all surprised by the love and acceptance she sees brimming in dark eyes nearly identical to her own because, if she thinks about it, if she _really_ thinks about it and removes her own fear and the internalized homophobia from her thoughts, her mom has never given her any reason to really doubt that she would be anything other than accepting and loving. Her father and the rest of her family on the other hand—

Maribel reaches across the counter to take Santana’s hand and brings it to rest over her heart. “Of course, _mija_ , I don’t care who you love, as long as they make you happy. And Brittany’s been making you happy for so long, and I trust her to continue to do so, even if it is less as a best friend and more as your sweetheart. Especially then, because you’ve been so much happier since the summer. Less angry about your— About your father. You’re more settled now, like you’ve found yourself. And I have a feeling it has a lot to do with this young lady holding your hand under the counter.”

Brittany and Santana both blush as they glance at each other, smiling shyly as their fingers twine tighter together, before Santana nods slowly, both caught up in the other’s eyes and their overwhelming senses of relief. Maribel smiles at them and tightens her fingers around the hand in her own. “Now come here you two, you both need hugs.”

Santana chokes on a relieved laugh and stands to wrap her arms tightly around her mom, feeling a lot like a little girl again, seeking comfort in her mom’s healing embrace, but for the first time in years it doesn’t feel like a bad thing. Her mom releases one arm from around Santana’s back, gesturing for Brittany to join, and giving them both kisses to their foreheads with a soft _I love you_ , waiting until they echo it back before she releases them. The two girls glance at each and smile again, just because, and Maribel grins, allowing herself to fade to the background.

Brittany wraps Santana in a hug of her own, pressing kisses to Santana’s temple. “I need to go home for dinner,” Brittany whispers into dark hair.

“Really?” Santana pouts.

“Really really,” Brittany teases, pulling back and pressing a quick kiss to Santana’s nose before she grows serious. “I need to tell my parents too.”

Santana swallows thickly and nods. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks bravely.

Brittany feels her stomach swoop out from underneath her as she falls more in love with Santana (it’s the seventeenth time that day, because Brittany understands numbers and forever and infinity, and all the little things Santana does throughout the day that makes Brittany love her even more also helps her understand those things just a little bit better). “No, honey, you’ve been through a lot today. You need to change into sweatpants and that hoodie I know you stole from my Cheerios bag last week and eat your mom’s delicious pulled pork and give her some more hugs. I’ll eat with my family and then come back, you’ll barely know I was gone.”

Santana pouts playfully but her eyes are bright and grateful. “I suppose,” she says with a mock frown. “I’ll walk you to the door,” she offers, getting that flustered, breathless look when her mom lets out a knowing chuckle on the other side of the kitchen. “Oh, hush you,” she directs at her mom as she takes Brittany’s hand and drags her to the front door, barely allowing Brittany time to call out her _see you later_ ’s to Maribel.

Santana stands and wrings her hands together as she waits for Brittany to slip her black heels back on. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

Brittany shakes her head, standing up and cupping Santana’s face; Santana has to tip her head back to meet Brittany’s eyes with the added height of the heels. “It’s okay, really, stay here with your mom. My parents already know I’m bi, and I told my sister I have a crush on you when she asked about it,” Brittany says with a wink. Santana grins, nudging their noses together so she can give Brittany a quick peck. “And if even the munchkin can see it, well, I can guarantee my mom knows about us already.”

“Okay,” Santana breathes before pressing another kiss to Brittany’s warm lips, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Brittany replies with an easy smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Mmm,” Santana agrees as she presses her lips to Brittany’s again.

“ _Mija,_ Let Brittany go so she can eat already!”

Santana rolls her eyes, but amidst her fond exasperation her eyes are watery with relief and her smile is grateful. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she calls back, her eyes twinkling at Brittany as she gives her hands one last squeeze before leaning past her to open the door. “Hey, tell ‘Cedes and Sugar how it went and— And tell them thank you,” she says before Brittany exits. 

“Of course, silly,” Brittany says, pressing a kiss to Santana’s lips before turning and crossing the porch, skipping the two steps and landing gracefully even in her heels. Santana leans on the doorframe as Brittany jogs across the yard, her pale arms wrapped around herself for warmth. They hadn’t noticed it earlier because of everything, but it’s freezing out and the grass crackles and breaks under Brittany’s heels. Santana waves to Mercedes and Sugar, smiling brightly when they wave back. She can’t be bothered with her bitchy façade when her mom still loves her despite— No, _because_ of who she is and who she loves. They both glance at each other in surprise before beaming and waving back as Brittany hops in the car. Santana watches them for a few minutes, smiling when Sugar seems to bounce out of her seat and Mercedes beams and claps her hands together, leaning forward to blow a pleased kiss at Santana. Santana rolls her eyes but gives the car two thumbs up, waving as Mercedes pulls out of the driveway and down the street before she follows her nose back into the house and to the kitchen. Her mom’s at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes from yesterday and humming along to the radio in the corner where some old Motown song is crooning around the kitchen. Santana grins and crosses the room to her mom, wrapping her in a hug from behind and wrinkling her nose in complaint when her mom pats her arm with a soapy hand, feeling ridiculously light, as if something inside her had loosened and in its place was the love and acceptance she has always craved.

Hours later and they’re curled up on the couch, stretched out lengthwise with Brittany squished between the back of the couch and Santana, Santana leaning back into Brittany and tracing patterns over the forearm wrapped around her stomach, some stereotypical crime-drama-murder series casting the dim living room in a blue glow. Brittany narrates her evening of telling her parents and the munchkin about them, which went exactly how she expected, with her mom’s exclamation of _Took you long enough! Pierce you own me twenty bucks_ and her dad’s joking _Santana? Who is this Santana person and what are her intentions with my baby girl?_ and her sister’s _Is that why you two spend so much time being boring and just_ smiling _at each other?_

Santana laughs and snuggles further back into Brittany’s embrace. “That’s the Pierces,” she agrees affectionately. “I’m glad your family and my mom are so awesome.”

“Me too,” Brittany sighs happily. “They, uh,” she doesn’t really want to disturb the calm that had settled over them, but they really do need to talk about everything that had happened, “they didn’t take it well when I told them about the ad. My mom especially, she was engaged.”

Santana’s silent for a moment. “Enraged?” she asks, and even without looking at her face Brittany can hear the smile in her voice.

Brittany giggles. “Yeah, I was thinking engaged wasn’t quite right.”

Santana sighs, the sound warm and bright, “Yeah, enraged makes a little more sense.” She’s quiet for a beat, and then, “I told my mom about the ad too, she’s furious.”

Brittany swallows thickly. “Can she do anything?”

“She should be able to because I’m a minor and it’s such a gross invasion of privacy, especially since I have nothing to do with the election,” Santana says and then hesitates, pausing in tracing her fingers over Brittany’s arm. “But not— Not in time.”

Brittany glances at the glowing numbers of the clock on the television box. They burn into Brittany’s memory, mockingly searing _8:17_ against into her until she can see neon red against her eyelids when she winces and squeezes her eyes shut. The ad had aired for the very first time thirteen minutes ago, and so Brittany peppers thirteen kisses against the cheek she can reach, trailing them to Santana’s lips and pressing the last seven kiss there, and then adding about five more just because, until she’s swallowing Santana’s giggles around her own smile.

Brittany settles again, her chin resting on Santana’s shoulder as she gazes down at her. She doesn’t want to disturb their peace again, but Santana, sensing her hesitance, glances up and meets her eyes, nodding with a small smile. “You can ask me, Britt-Britt.”

“What about—” Brittany pauses and thinks, before asking carefully, “Did you talk to your dad?”

Santana shrugs, her eyes shifting past Brittany to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Well, you know I haven’t really talked to him since June,” she explains quietly. Brittany shifts and buries her nose into the hair at the nape of Santana’s neck, her heart aching for her girlfriend. Santana shrugs again and melts further back into Brittany’s embrace, tracing her fingers along the arm Brittany has wrapped around her torso. “He emailed a couple weeks ago,” she mumbles, “for my birthday.”

“Oh Santana,” Brittany murmurs, leaning up to press a long kiss to Santana’s temple. “I’m sorry.”

Santana’s quiet for a long time before she curls into herself, pulling Brittany with her until she’s draped over Santana like a blanket. “I told him, after you left. Mom convinced me to call him myself before— Before he sees the ad.” Brittany presses herself closer and waits. “She thought he should hear it from me, but she— She warned me that he— That he probably wouldn’t—” Santana breaks off and takes a deep breath before she falls silent.

Brittany nuzzles back into Santana’s neck, pressing her lips against the warm skin underneath her mouth. “Did he— Did he not take it well?”

“He didn’t say anything. He didn’t yell or scream or disown me. He was quiet for a moment and then he asked me if I was planning on having Thanksgiving with my mom again, and when I said yes he hung up. He just— He just didn’t say _anything_.” Santana doesn’t cry because she’s just too tired after today, tired yet happy about everything with her mom and the Pierces. Though, thinking back on it, it was always her dad that she feared telling the most. “I don’t know what I expected, but it would be easier if he did something, you know?” Brittany nods against Santana’s neck and presses another kiss there, tightening her arms around Santana. “But he just— _Nothing_ , nothing at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Brittany repeats.

“I know,” Santana says, finally smiling. “That’s all that matters to me, that you’re here and that my mom and your family knows and accepts us, everything else is just trivial compared to that.”

Brittany smiles against Santana’s neck before it fades as her thoughts change again. “What are you going to tell the glee kids?” she asks, trying to keep the current distain she feels for most of the New Directions regarding everything over the past couple days out of her voice.

But, of course, Santana hears it and twists in her arms to press a kiss to the underside of Brittany’s jaw. “I’ll tell them that my parents are okay with it, because my mom’s the only parent I’ve had for a while, and she’s the only one who really matters. And the glee kids don’t need to know that.”

Brittany hums. “I love you,” she says.

Santana grins and cranes her neck up to press a soft, warm kiss to Brittany’s lips. “I love you too,” she whispers against Brittany’s mouth, before she settles back against Brittany, burying her face in Brittany’s neck and breathing in the scent of coconut and honeysuckle and jasmine and something sharp and minty, probably the muscle ointment Brittany sometimes uses after Cheerios practice when she’s particularly sore. 

The shuttering of a camera alerts them to the fact that they’re not alone, and Santana groans loudly as she buries herself further into Brittany, who is shaking with laughter. “Mami,” Santana complains.

“I’m starting a new album,” her mom announces, the smirk evident in her voice, “you two have been cuddling for about as long as you’ve been dancing.”

“Britt-Britt,” Santana whines, “Make her stop.”

Brittany laughs. “Well, she’s not exactly wrong, babe. We used to nap together, like, all the time.” She shifts, turning so she can see Maribel at the end of the couch, grinning widely when Santana grumbles at being slightly dislodged from her place against Brittany’s neck. “I’m sure my mom has a bunch of pictures too,” Brittany offers.

Maribel brightens. “Of course! I’m going to go call her right now, since we’re practically parent-in-laws and all,” she teases. 

Santana groans into Brittany’s neck, loud and low and long, “I can’t believe you’d betray me like that, Britt-Britt.”

Brittany laughs and presses a kiss to the top of Santana’s head. “What can I say? I’ve got to stay on your mom’s good side, since we’re girlfriends and all.”

Santana hums dreamily. “Yeah,” she agrees, and she doesn’t even react when her mom starts snapping about twenty pictures too many, “we are.”

 

* * *

 

November comes and goes in the quiet moments, with knowing stares that make skin crawl under judging eyes and hands that tighten defiantly and comfortingly in response, with the work they put into rebuilding their courage and shedding fear like the trees shed the last of their leaves, with cold wind that steals the breath right from their lungs as they tug each other through the parking lot by fully intertwined fingers instead of linked pinkies, with the Troubletones rallying around them in protective glares and threats of the Motta’s seemingly never-ending supply of money, where fear is replaced by the warmth and acceptance and understanding that has always been craved but was only found once they were safe enough to be their private selves around other people _._

 

* * *

 

When Brittany stumbles down the stairs at nine-thirty in the morning, her eyes still blurry with sleep and a yawn caught against her teeth, she wasn’t expecting to almost knock the Thanksgiving turkey out of her mom’s hands. It’s only her quick, almost cat-like reflexes that saves them from being turkey-less that night, especially when Lord Tubbington, frightened by the sudden commotion at the foot of the stairs, shoots past Brittany and her mom where they’re tangled together, the turkey still caught between them, as Whitney stumbles into the wall.

“Lord Tubbington,” Brittany chides as she steadies her mom with one hand, tightening her other around the roaster, “if this skittishness is the result of your gang affiliation we are _so_ going to have words later.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” her mom says once she’s regained her balance, cautiously taking the turkey from her daughter and eyeing the floor for their cat. “I knew I should have kept this thing in here instead of in the garage fridge.”

Brittany is more or less wide-awake now as she follows her mom into the kitchen where she’s preparing for Thanksgiving dinner, the oven preheating and giving the room a warm feeling. Her mom slides the turkey into the oven sideways so she’ll be able to fit other dishes in alongside it later in the day. She turns and flicks the stove on with a twist of her wrist, heating the element under the kettle to make her daughter some hot chocolate without even asking if she wants any, pulling out a spoon from the cutlery drawer and finding a clean mug in the dishwasher, setting both beside a canister of hot chocolate she grabs from the cupboard beside the microwave. Somewhere in the house the muffled sound of a vacuum starts as Pierce begins cleaning the house for the holiday.

The dressing her mom made last night sits in a silver bowl on the counter, only half full since her mom had already stuffed the turkey earlier in the morning. Brittany leans over the counter as her mom’s back is turned, stealing a bit and popping it into her mouth with a mischievous grin when her mom turns back around and fondly rolls her eyes, shaking a wooden spoon at her daughter in a mock-attempt at a reprimand as she steals some dressing for herself. A block of butter sits in the middle of the counter surrounded by the salt and pepper and coriander and cumin and garlic powder, spoon gouges etched into the yellow rectangle. Potatoes are peeled and chopped into cubes in the big soup pot on the stove, water filling it until there’s no part of any potato exposed to the air. Carrots are washed in the skin, a casserole dish about a quarter of the way full of peeled carrots cut into little dimes, the honey bottle and the dill in an old margarine container nearby to make honey-dill carrots, which are Santana’s favourite. Brittany reminds herself to save a ziplock container of them for her girlfriend, grinning in anticipation of the kisses she knows she’ll receive for the treat.

“You’re a little late on the turkey this year, mom,” Brittany teases as she sits at the settles back on her stool and wipes sleep from her eyes.

Her mom sends her a sly look that Brittany would be desperately trying to interpret if it wasn’t nine thirty-four in the morning on a Friday off from school, instead it just makes her mildly curious and a little sleepy. “I was talking to a friend for a little bit this morning and lost track of time,” her mom explains, her blue eyes sparkling brightly. 

“Oh yeah?” Brittany yawns, resting her head on her crossed arms, “Who was it?”

“A surprise,” her mom answers. The kettle starts screaming and she turns to shut the stove off, spooning a couple tablespoons of hot chocolate mix into the mug and pouring the boiling water into it after.

Brittany perks up a little bit at that. “What kind of surprise?”

Whitney grins to herself as she stirs the hot chocolate, turning to face her daughter with that same sly grin in place. “Well, I was talking to a friend who wondered if I wouldn’t do a favour for her daughter.” Brittany really perks up at that, her mind racing with hope. “You should invite Santana over for Thanksgiving supper tonight,” her mom continues conversationally.

“What? Really?” Brittany asks, bolting upright as shocked excitement paints her features in delight. “Wait, why?”

Her mom shakes her head in fondness and sets the mug in front of Brittany. Brittany grins and murmurs her thanks, wrapping her cold hands around the mug. “Maribel called this morning. She’s working days today, and with everything regarding Santana’s father, and since she would have usually gone to her _abuela’s_ house,” her mom trails off, her face pinched in pain. Brittany swallows and looks away. Even the warm mug between her fingers doesn’t stop the cold chill that spreads through her body. Her mom clears her throat and reaches over to pry one of Brittany’s hands from her mug and clasp it in hers. “Anyways, Maribel wondered if we wouldn’t mind having her.”

“Really?” Brittany squeals. “You’re the best,” she exclaims, barely pushing her mug to the side before she leans across the counter to pull her mom into a tight hug. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” her mom says affectionately, patting her Brittany’s back, “We can’t have my daughter’s girlfriend going hungry on Thanksgiving.”

Brittany pulls back and brightens at that, as she does every time some calls Santana her girlfriend, like she can’t quite believe it. “I’m going to go get her right now!” she says, her voice echoing around the kitchen as she races for the stairs, steaming hot chocolate forgotten before she had even taken a sip. Whitney shakes her head fondly as she goes back to cutting up the carrots, knowing that honey-dill carrots been Santana’s favourite dish at the Pierce’s since she shyly asked for seconds back when the two girls were about six and had their very first sleepover ever. She’s barely finished peeling and cutting four carrots before Brittany is racing back down the stairs and out the door with a shouted, “Be back soon, mom, love you, bye!” as the door slams shut.

Brittany debates calling Santana on the way over, but decides against it because she really wants to surprise her girlfriend. She knows the plan had been for Santana to spend the weekend with her _abuela_ , but ever since being outed at the beginning of the month, that plan had fallen completely apart, and she knows that Santana had been trying to act brave and like it didn’t bother her, but she also knows how much it does bother her. And besides, she had been planning on spending the day begging her mom to let Santana come over anyway, her mom just so happened to exponentially streamline the process. 

Brittany makes it Santana’s house in record time, not because she was speeding or anything, but just because the streets are pretty empty at nine fifty-seven on Thanksgiving morning. She parks in the Lopez driveway and gets out of her car, locking the car from the door control so it doesn’t honk out loud since she knows Santana will hear it on the off chance that she’s actually awake before ten in the morning. She jogs up the sidewalk and to the front door, sliding her key into the lock and slowly pushing it open, thankful that Maribel always keeps the front door fairly well oiled since it only squeaks a little bit. She closes the door behind her and slides the lock back into place, kicking off her sneakers and throwing her letterman jacket on the coatrack beside Santana’s before tiptoeing across the floor, avoiding the creaky spot by the entrance to the living room and the door to the bathroom. The door to the basement is open, and so she continues to creep down the stairs, jumping the last three since she knows they all squeak really loudly. The laundry room door is closed and the window above the storage boxes shoved in the corner casts the basement in the same hazy greyness as the weather outside. 

The door to Santana’s bedroom opens easily under her hands, and she takes a moment to appreciate the shape of Santana in the dim light of her bedroom. She’s curled on her side, partially wrapped around her second pillow with the sheets tangled around her until nothing but her head and the curve of her bare shoulder pokes out. Brittany smiles as her heart thuds against her sternum, creeping across the room and lifting the corner of the covers, sliding in behind Santana and curling around her.

She’s bed-warm and soft, smelling of faded jasmine lotion and sleep. Brittany grins when Santana shifts and snuggles back against her, inhaling deeply through her nose and sighing out a content breath. Brittany presses kisses to the shoulder under her, trailing them across Santana’s neck and up behind her ear, sucking the skin there until a sleepy moan reaches her ears before she continues on, pressing kisses along Santana’s jawline as she wakes and twists her head to catch Brittany’s lips with her own. Her kiss is closed mouth but still a little stale with sleepy sweetness as she hums against Brittany, pulling back and letting her head fall back to the pillow as she blinks languidly up at Brittany.

“Hi,” she mumbles.

“Hi,” Brittany giggles, snuggling against Santana’s warmth. Santana pats at Brittany, clumsy with sleep, as she hums in contentment. “I have a question to ask you.”

“Hmm?” Brittany pinches Santana’s side, grinning when dark eyes shoot fully open and she jerks away from Brittany’s tickling hands, only succeeding in curling further into Brittany’s body. “Okay, okay, I’m awake, jeez,” she grumbles.

Brittany just giggles and shifts them so she’s hovering over Santana. Santana’s eyes darken with interest as she traces her hands over the small of Brittany’s back. Brittany nudges their noses together and kisses Santana sweetly before she pulls back to catch Santana’s gaze. “I was wondering,” she says, mockingly serious, “if you would do me the honour of joining us Pierces for a wonderfully delicious Thanksgiving dinner?”

Santana’s eyes soften at the corners, her eyes melting chocolate as she gazes up at Brittany in awe. “Oh yeah? Will there be honey-dill carrots?” she teases gently.

Brittany hums in thought. “Possibly,” she grins.

“Hmm, will the munchkin be clinging to my legs the entire day?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

“Will your dad make awful dad jokes all throughout supper until your mom threatens to make him eat on the porch?”

“Do you even have to ask that one?”

Santana giggles and tilts her chin back to study Brittany’s face, her eyes bright and warm and adoring. “Will my wonderfully amazing girlfriend be there?”

Brittany leans down to nudge their noses together. “She’ll be wherever you are,” she promises.

“Love you,” Santana mumbles as she tilts her chin up to capture Brittany’s lips against hers, still close-mouthed and mindful of her morning breath.

Brittany doesn’t really care all that much about the morning breath, but she does pull back eventually when she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. Santana sighs at the loss but allows Brittany to shift around above her and manoeuvre her phone out of her pocket, hands slowly stroking up and down Brittany’s sides. Brittany finally manages to bring her phone up to eye level and lighting up the screen to read her text. Her face flushes and she groans, rolling her eyes and flopping onto the bed beside Santana. 

“What?” Santana mumbles as she shifts to press her head to Brittany’s shoulder, curling around her lithe body.

“My mom told me to stop making out with you and pick up some milk on the way home,” she grumbles.

Santana giggles and Brittany feels her face heat up against her shoulder. “She knows us far too well.”

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees. Neither of them make any move to get up though, too comfortable cuddled together under Santana’s sheets; at least until Brittany’s next text message just reads _Brittany Susan Pierce_.

Santana laughs when Brittany shows her the message, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before ignoring Brittany’s whine as she crawls out of bed and stretches. “Give me like half an hour and I’ll be ready to go. I’ve gotta shower.”

Brittany perks up, propping herself on her elbow and letting her eyes drift suggestively over Santana’s body. “I also need to shower.”

“Hmm, interesting,” Santana murmurs as she leans over Brittany, the view down her tank top making Brittany’s mouth dry. Santana hovers over her for a long moment before her face splits in a smirk and she stands up abruptly. “Should have thought of that before you came over,” she teases as she saunters to her bathroom.

Brittany groans loudly and flops back on the bed. “I hate you,” she calls to Santana’s retreating form.

“Love you too, babe,” Santana sing-songs from the bathroom.

Brittany grins at the ceiling and texts her mom back while she listens to the sounds of Santana getting ready; grumbling as she tries to brush her wild curls, the scratching sound of brushing teeth, then the shower running, and then the soft singing echoing in the bathroom. About twenty minutes later Santana comes out of the bathroom in a swirl of steam, crossing over to her dresser to pull out clean underwear. Brittany watches her appreciatively as she dresses, wolf-whistling when Santana makes a show of bending over to pull jeans from her bottom drawer, throwing a smouldering look over her shoulder but bursting immediately into giggles at Brittany’s exaggerated pose, sprawled across the bed and propped up on one hand, fanning of herself and fluttering her eyes.

They’re out the door almost exactly ten minutes later, staring at the freshly falling snow in awe. It’s only chilly out so the snow melts into the cement of the sidewalk and driveway and street but paints the tips of the dying grass in soft white. Brittany grins and tangles her fingers with Santana’s, tugging on their hands until Santana turns to her with a small smile. “It’s snowing,” Brittany whispers.

Santana’s smile widens and she squeezes Brittany’s hand briefly. “It’s beautiful.”

Brittany’s eyes never leave Santana’s as she agrees, “It really is.”

Santana tilts her head to the side and glances across her yard. The snow coats the neighbourhood, thick flakes swirling through the air and catching with selective stickiness on the cars lining the streets, on top the hedges surrounding driveways, in the hard dirt of empty flowerbeds, along the railing of the porch, and against Santana’s midnight hair, catching in both of their eyelashes and melting in the time it takes to blink; it paints the neighbourhood in fresh white, the scent of winter and a new beginning sharp in the air.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” Santana murmurs, and even though she doesn’t elaborate, Brittany knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“It’s okay,” Brittany promises, “you’re here now, we’re here together. I don’t care that it took a little while. We’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

Santana smiles and tugs gently on Brittany’s hand until she turns towards her. Her other hand cups Brittany’s cheek, chilled by the air against Brittany’s warm skin. “Yeah,” she agrees as she rises up to press her lips to Brittany’s, tasting of mint and brightness and love, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

Brittany smiles against Santana’s lips. “I know,” she mumbles, “we’re going together from now on.”

Santana hums and they stand there kissing for long moments in the weak sunlight struggling to break through the snow clouds, not stopping for the cars speeding past on the wet street or the slamming of front doors echoing around the neighbourhood or the shouted greetings to distant relatives, kissing proudly in the light of day and of the public like they haven’t before, kissing until Brittany’s phone rings with her mom’s ringtone and the content stillness around them shifts because _I know you love your girlfriend and I love her too but I really do need that milk if I’m going to finish this supper before the rest of the family gets here and also could you pick up some cranberry sauce because your father forgot again like he does every year honestly I think he’s doing it on purpose_ , and, even after all that, kissing some more just because they can.

 

* * *

 

Autumn comes and goes in the quiet moments, with bright love and secret smiles in the fading summer sun while hiding themselves right in plain sight because people only ever see what they want to see, with quiet courage and glowing pride as gold leaves fall around them in unexpected acceptance even when they’re forced to spill their secrets before they’re ready, with the softness and innocence of the first snowfall of the year sticking to promises that never really needed to be said aloud but still are just because they can be said aloud as they shift from the shadows and into the light in the same way they’ve been doing everything since the start of summer, as themselves, quiet and in love.

It’s at the end of autumn that Santana finally lets go of her fear.

 

* * *

 

_“I think of the beauty in the obvious, the way it forces us to admit how it exists._

_The way it insists on being pointed out like a bloody nose._

_Or how every time it snows there is always someone around to say, ‘It’s snowing.’_

_But the obvious isn’t showing off, it’s only reminding us that time passes._

_And that somewhere along the way we must grow up._

_Not perfect, but up and out.”_

 

* * *

 

Autumn comes and goes in the quiet moments.

It’s quiet courage and bright love among falling leaves, loving in the shadows and loving in the florescent light, promises of _I’m not going anywhere_ and _I know, we’re going together now_.

 

* * *

 

It’s the end of autumn that Santana finally lets go of her fear.

 

* * *

 

November comes and goes in the quiet moments.

It’s crimson sunsets and migrating birds, choking fear and crumbling secrets and a freeing sense of weightlessness when fingers fully tangle together in hallways and friends surround them and block the judging eyes from their thoughts.

 

* * *

 

October comes and goes in the quiet moments.

It’s falling gold and red and biting wind, stolen kisses and pumpkin carvings and sudden understandings of dating as trees lose their leaves in the same way that growing self-acceptance falls into place under blue-eyed pride and love.

 

* * *

 

September comes and goes in the quiet moments.

It’s warm and cool, small panics that make breath catch harshly against teeth and are only soothed by warm fingers and even warmer kisses as they run towards each other instead of away for the first time.

 

* * *

 

Autumn is a new beginning hidden among falling gold and teenage thoughtlessness until all that’s left is them, alone in the ash and dust of their most well-kept secret exposed in the most careless way.

It’s kisses that taste a little less of fear and a little more of courage, where they can count each moment when they fall even more in love than before like they can count falling leaves, until they lose track of the number as it nears infinity.

 

* * *

 

It’s at the start of autumn that Brittany finally lets go of her fear.

 

* * *

 

_“We’ll always have the obvious._

_It reminds us who and where we are._

_It lives like a heart shaped liked a jar that we hand to others and ask, ‘Can you open this for me?’_

_We always get the same answer: ‘Not without breaking it.’_

_More often than sometimes, I say ‘Go for it.’ "_

 

* * *

 

_“Britt-Britt?” Santana asks, peaking around the wooden post holding up the side of the playground. “Where’d you go?”_

_A sniffle leads Santana to crouch down and half-crawl half-walk under the playground, following the sound of what she hopes is her best friend, but also hopes it isn’t because sniffles usually mean crying and Santana hates it when Brittany cries because it makes her feel all helpless and panicked. “Britty?” Santana tries again._

_“I’m under here, Tana,” a muffled voice calls. Santana’s heart flutters in her chest like hummingbird wings at the miserable sound as she crouches down further to crawl into the shadowy underbelly of the playground, for once glad to be one of the smallest people in their grade as she easily inches under the wooden platforms. Wet sand from the fading summer rain that morning clings to her jean overalls and chills her knees and palms._

_A flash of blonde glows through the darkness as Santana reaches her best friend. Her arms are wrapped around her legs, curling herself as small as possible, as she buries her face into her knees, her shoulders shaking every so often with a sniffle or a hiccup. “Britt-Britt,” Santana whispers, “what’s wrong?” She can feel her heartbeat pound in her fingertips as she brushes them along Brittany’s arm. Brittany raises her head with a sniffle, blue eyes dull and watery, tear-tracks glowing faintly in the dim light under the playground._

_Kids shriek above them as they run across the wooden platforms, and Santana reaches forward, pulling Brittany into her arms and shielding her from the sand raining down on them from the pounding feet on the wood above. “Hey, it’s okay,” Santana coos against blonde hair, “I’m here.”_

_Brittany shudders against her, releasing her legs to wrap her arms tightly around Santana and burying her face in Santana’s neck. Wetness immediately coats Santana’s skin, making it feel tight and sticky, as Brittany hiccups against her. Santana continues to coo in Brittany’s ear, stroking her hands up and down Brittany’s back, turning their faces down again as pounding feet sends another shower of sand over them._

_“It’s okay, Britt-Britt,” she mumbles, “I’m here now, you’re okay.”_

_Brittany nods against her and tightens her arms around Santana, clinging to the back of her jean overalls as she shifts closer like she’s trying to crawl into her body. Santana’s heartbeat continues to hammer as she desperately tries to calm her best friend, wishing more than anything that Brittany would stop crying, willing to give all of the birthday gifts and Christmas gifts she’s ever gotten back just to see Brittany smile again._

_Another shower of sand rains down on them and Santana pulls them further into the cool gloom, hoping that the darker shadows will protect them from the sporadic cascades of sand. Brittany follows her willingly, curling against Santana in the dark, hugging her sideways with her long legs thrown over Santana’s lap, her head resting on a bony shoulder and her hands still clinging to jean fabric._

_“He called me stupid,” Brittany mumbles against Santana’s neck._

_Santana immediately stiffens, her hands flexing against Brittany’s back as a scowl spreads across her face. “Who did?” she growls._

_“I dunno,” Brittany answers, snuggling further against her best friend, “some third grader, I think.”_

_“I’ll beat him up,” Santana answers without even thinking about it._

_Brittany smiles softly; Santana can feel the shape of it against her neck. “Tana, you can’t beat everyone up.”_

_“I can beat up people who are mean to you,” Santana says confidently, “it’s part of the best friend code.”_

_“Is that a real thing?” Brittany asks suspiciously._

_Santana shrugs and plays with the hem of Brittany’s shirt. “Sure it is, I created it for you and me, ‘cause we’re best friends and people aren’t allowed to be mean to you.”_

_Brittany giggles, tugging Santana closer to her so she’s almost on Santana’s lap, releasing one hand from her hold on Santana’s overalls to wipe the tears from her face. “I don’t really remember what he looks like though.”_

_Santana hums against Brittany’s hair. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find him.”_

_Brittany shakes her head as she giggles again, settling her arms back around Santana again once her face is mostly dry. Santana continues to play with Brittany’s shirt, twisting it between nimble fingers only to smooth the wrinkles out a moment later. Another pounding of feet above them sends more sand showering down, except Santana was right about the shadows being protective because the sand only falls in front of them and not on them._

_Brittany takes a deep breath and shifts against Santana, turning her head so her face is pressed against Santana’s neck again. “It made me feel weird, when he called me stupid, like my body was too big for my skin, or maybe like I was too small for my body, you know?”_

_Santana thinks back to last week when Brittany was teaching her to dance in the shady grass beside the school during their last recess of the day, her pink tongue sticking out in concentration as she muttered numbers under her breath and led Santana through the steps with seven-year old clumsiness; their hands clasped together, Brittany’s left in Santana’s right, their other hands staggered over a shoulder and against a hip, feet tripping over each other as Santana stumbled into Brittany, sending both of them giggling. She thinks back to the group of fifth graders strutting past them and how the hair on the back of her neck had tingled as they sneered at her and Brittany, of how the leader of the group had stepped forwards, arms crossed and glaring gleefully as Santana and Brittany’s hands fell from the other’s body until they only remained connected by their hands as the kid had opened his mouth and started scornfully calling them names until a teacher had seen the group cornering two terrified second graders against the school and rushed over._

_Santana thinks of the names the older kid called them and how they made Santana’s skin hot and prickly even though she didn’t know what they meant, and how it made her hand drop from Brittany’s like it burned. She thinks of how it made something in her stomach twist and her skin crawl like it does when mud sticks to it, like something dirty and wet, except this time it was something itching at her from the inside out. She thinks of how the older kid’s sneer sounded exactly like her papi’s when he saw those two men swinging a little girl between them in the grocery store the day before, muttering_ Esto es una vergüenza _under his breath as he tugged Santana away. She thinks of how the disgust on her papi’s face made her stomach plummet and twist itself into knots and heat crawl under her skin, something that was only soothed later when, after a heated whisper-yelled argument between her parents, her mami had crept into her room and rubbed Santana’s stomach until she fell into a fitful sleep, images of her papi’s sneer and those two men and bright blue eyes floating behind her eyelids._

_“Yeah,” Santana finally murmurs, “I know what you mean.”_

_“I didn’t like it,” Brittany mutters._

_“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you, Britt-Britt,” Santana admits._

_Brittany sits up a little, leaning back so she can catch Santana’s gaze. Santana’s a little startled by how blue her eyes are, even in the dim shadows. “It’s okay, Tana,” Brittany promises, “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”_

_Santana takes a deep breath and smiles widely at her best friend. “Yeah,” she agrees, “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”_

 

* * *

 

It’s on a cool autumn day that Santana feels real fear for the first time.

It’s a week later that Brittany feels real fear for the first time too.

 

* * *

 

It’s at the start of autumn that Brittany finally lets go of her fear.

It’s at the end of autumn that Santana finally lets go of her fear.

 


End file.
